I 


" 


e 


FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  CALIFORNIA  FROM 
STEAMER  "  GOLDEN  AGE,"  1868 


^preface 


This  little  Memorial  commends  itself  to  the  pupils  of  the  Con- 
vent of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart  in  their  moments  of  pleasant 
retrospection.  Pursuing  the  paths  and  by-paths  of  years,  culling 
here  and  there  a  flower  of  perfumed  memory,  it  will  lend  a  charm 
we  trust,  to  their  leisure  hours,  while  it  cannot  fail  to  interest  those 
who  have  seen  their  Alma  Mater's  young  and  vigorous  life  culminate 
in  a  grand  Jubilee  demonstration. 

Xo  event  of  the  past  is  fraught  with  keener  emotions  or  purer 
joys  than  a  visit  to  the  old  homestead,  dim  as  the  dear  old  relic 
may  appear  in  the  twilight  of  receding  years.  So  a  ramble  through 
our  school  days  is  attended  with  a  corresponding  degree  of  pleasure, 
blurred  though  our  favorite  pictures  are,  by  the  cares  and  anxieties 
of  life,  or  by  the  shadows  of  time,  which  are  lengthening  and  deep- 
ening. 

But  lo  !  a  flash  from  memory's  sun — and  the  whole  scene  is 
aglow — radiant  with  light,  color  and  beauty.  There  are  joys  and 
sorrows,  struggles  and  defeats,  high  aims  and  lofty  endeavors — here, 
a  wise  counsel,  which  like  a  golden  thread,  has  woven  itself  into 
our  years.  Now,  a  hallowed  life,  which  has  set  its  seal  upon  our 
own,  again,  an  influence,  whose  power  for  good  is  abiding. 

Friends  outside  the  school  circle,  of  whose  names  we  are  justly 
proud,  have  come  into  this  memory  banquet,  and  graced  the  board 
by  their  genial  sympathy,  their  beauty  of  speech,  and  melody  of 
song.  We  value  the  contribution,  both  for  its  intrinsic  worth  and 
for  the  gracious  kindness  which  suggested  it. 

We  leave  you,  therefore,  dear  pupils,  in  communion  with  this 
messenger  of  pleasant  souvenirs,  trusting  to  the  generosity  we  have 
'so  well  known  in  the  past,  that  you  will  take  it  to  your  hearts  in 
kindly  approval,  and  still  more  kindly  welcome. 

Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 
Feast  of  the  Holy  Name  of  fesns,  1893. 

9 


•.*  A.  M.  D.  G. 

On  October  6, 1811  at  St.  Antoine  on  the  river  Chambly  in  Can- 
ada, a  little  girl  was  born  to  Sir  Oliver  Durocher.  She  was  baptized 
the  same  day  and  called  Eulalia.  God  had  destined  this  child  to 
be  a  vessel  of  election  to  carry  His  name  and  His  holy  truth  to  many. 
From  early  childhood  she  heard  in  the  depths  of  her  soul,  the  whis- 
perings of  the  Holy  Spirit  urging  her  to  consecrate  herself  to  God's 
service.  Faithful  to  grace  and  ever  anxious  to  obey  these  promptings 
to  higher  things,  she  made  repeated  efforts  to  enter  several  different 
religious  Sisterhoods  ;  but  insuperable  obstacles  always  arose  to  bar 
her  entrance.  These  disappointments  did  not  dishearten  her,  nor 
cool  her  ardent  yearning  for  self  immolation  to  God's  glory.  They 
served  rather  to  increase  that  lofty  aspiration  to  detach  her  heart 
from  everything  earthly  and  to  purify  its  affections. 

God's  ways  are  always  wise,  though  not  always  obvious  to  ordi- 
nary souls  :  but  Eulalia  Durocher  was  not  an  ordinary  soul.  All 
indeed  seemed  dark,  yet  like  all  great  minds  inspired  by  God  to  do 
great  things  for  Him,  she  trusted  and  waited.  She  believed  that  the 
Holy  Spirit  who  filled  her  heart  with  such  noble  desires  would  in 
His  own  time  and  own  way  show  her  how  to  accomplish  them. 

Having  chosen  for  confessor  the  Rev.  Father  Telmont,  an  Oblate 
Father  of  Mary  Immaculate,  she  opened  her  soul  to  him  ;  and 
under  his  enlightened  direction,  she  at  last  learned  God's  designs 
toward  her.  She  would  indeed  consecrate  herself  to  God's  service, 
but,  it  would  be  in  a  Congregation  of  which  she  would  be  the 
foundress. 

The  Oblate  Fathers  at  Longueuil,  were  men  full  of  zeal  for  souls 
and  for  the  welfare  of  Holy  Church.  They  gave  Missions  at  this 

11 


12  SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

time  throughout  Canada  ;  and  in  their  extensive  journeys  they  saw 
with  much  pain,  the  need  of  a  superior  teaching  body  for  girls  and 
young  women.  Many  of  the  poor  were  very  ignorant  ;  and  the  ed- 
ucation given  even  to  the  richer  classes  was  totally  insufficient  for  the 
rising  generation,  living  among  a  people  either  hostile  to  the  Church 
or  totally  indifferent  to  the  teachings  of  religion.  These  zealous 
men  sought  a  remedy  for  this  great  evil  by  introducing  from  France, 
the  Sisters  of  the  Holy  Names  of  Jesus  and  Mary.  Negotiations 
to  this  end  were  opened  with  the  Mother  Superior  in  France  ;  but 
they  came  to  nothing. 

Father  Telmont  who  had  wished  to  send  his  penitent  to  that 
congregation,  now  felt  inspired  to  organize  herself  and  companions, 
Melodic  Dufresne  and  Henriette  Cere,  into  a  religious  Community. 
He  did  so,  and  sent  them  to  Longueuil,  where  Father  Honorat  was 
Superior  of  the  Oblates  ;  and  Father  Honorat  himself  became  the 
first  Superior,  and  Father  Allard,  first  Chaplain  and  Novice  Master 
and  teacher  of  the  young  Community. 

Earnestly  and  faithfully  Father  Allard  trained  them  to  solid 
virtue  and  true  perfection  ;  till  having  been  transferred  to  Ottawa, 
and  later  consecrated  Bishop,  he  was  sent  to  Natal,  in  South  Africa. 
He  labored  there  till  old  age  forced  him  to  seek  a  rest.  Providence 
called  him  to  Rome,  where  he  greatly  aided  his  early  penitents  and 
novices  whom  he  found  seeking  the  approval  of  the  Holy  See  for 
those  very  constitutions  and  rules  in  which  he  had  so  long  instructed 
them.  It  was  due  to  him  that  they  were  approved  so  soon. 

It  was  on  Nov.  1,  1843  that  Eulalia  Duroclier,  Melodie  Dufresne 
and  Henriette  Cere  were  formed  into  a  religious  Community  by  the 
permission  and  with  the  blessing  of  the  Bishop  of  Montreal.  After 
a  year's  instruction  and  probation,  they  pronounced  their  first 
vows,  December  8,  1844  ;  and  in  1846,  August  loth,  they  took  per- 
petual vows.  Eulalia  Durocher  became  Sister  Mary  Rose;  and  when 
elected  Superior,  she  was  called  Mother  Mary  Rose,  the  title  by 
which  we  shall  henceforth  know  her.  Her  companions  were  named 
respectively,  Sister  M.  Agnes,  and  Sister  M.  Madeleine. 


INTRODUCTION  13 

The  new  Congregation  had  a  lowly  beginning,  like  all  great  bodies 
that  have  done  much  for  the  honor  of  God.  Its  first  years  were 
passed  amid  trials,  difficulties  and  great  tribulations.  These  were 
years  of  poverty,  of  suffering  and  of  heroic  endurance  in  the  face  of 
strong  opposition,  sometimes  even  from  those  consecrated  to  thasame 
cause.  The  Mother  House  at  Longueuil  was  very  small,  one  room 
serving  for  dormitory,  study-hall,  work-room  and  a  place  of  recrea- 
tion; another  was  used  now  as  refectory  and  again  as  parlor. 
The  chapel  was  11  x  12  feet  ;  and  its  sole  ornaments  were  a  crucifix 
and  a  statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  In  this  house  the  Sisters  kept, 
besides  the  infant  community,  seventeen  boarders  ;  and  so  low  were 
their  finances,  that  in  order  to  give  the  children  enough  to  eat,  the 
Sisters  would  deny  themselves  not  only  every  luxury,  but  often 
the  most  ordinary  food,  their  meals  being  often  only  potatoe*  an <1 
gait, 

These  privations  were  a  source  of  real  joy  to  the  three  brave 
women.  Was  not  this  the  cross  stamping  their  work  ?  And 
must  not  the  Cross  mark  all  of  God's  great  works  ?  They  were 
children  of  faith  ;  and  they  saw  in  these  effects  of  poverty  a  sign  of 
His  love  who  chose  to  be  born  in  a  manger.  Mother  Rose  knowing 
how  God's  children  are  purified  and  sanctified  by  sufferings,  rejoiced 
in  the  depths  of  her  great  heart  ;  and  throughout  all  these  tribu- 
lations, she  remained  calm  and  happy.  She  looked  beyond  the 
breakers  into  the  great  future,  and  in  strong  hopeful  words  of 
prophecy  spoke  of  the  final  success,  spread  and  triumph  of  her 
children. 

Not  the  least  of  the  early  trials  of  the  Sisters  was  the  death  of 
Mother  Rose,  five  years  after  her  vows  ;  yet  in  that  short  time  she 
had  so  imparted  her  spirit  to  her  saintly  companions  and  daughters 
that  the  Congregation  scarcely  felt  her  loss.  She  continued  to  live 
in  Mother  Agnes,  Mother  Madeleine,  Mother  Veronica  and  Mother 
Teresa.  They  had  her  strong  faith  and  burning  zeal  for  God's  glory 
and  the  good  of  Holy  Church.  Very  humble  and  mortified,  totally 
forgetful  of  self,  inflamed  with  ardent  love  of  Jesus,  whom  they 


14  SILVER    jritlLKK    M 

received  almost  daily  in  holy  Communion,  these  noble  souls  carried 
on  the  work  of  their  Mother.  No  sacrifice  was  too  great,  no  labor  too 
difficult  when  there  was  question  of  God's  glory,  and  the  salvation 
of  souls.  Nothing  disheartened,  nothing  appalled  them  in  their 
efforts  to  give  a  Christian  education  to  those  for  whom  Christ  had 
died.  Their  hearts  like  that  of  Mother  Rose  went  out  to  the  little 
children  of  the  land. 

A  three-fold  blessing  fell  upon  this  rising  Congregation.  The  first 
was  its  early  poverty  and  consequent  sufferings  ;  the  second  the 
union  of  mind  and  heart  betwreen  the  Foundress  and  her  first  com- 
panions who  continued  her  work  in  the  same  spirit  of  faith  and  by 
the  same  lofty  means  ;  the  third,  in  the  enlightened  and  zealous 
Spiritual  Fathers  whom  God  sent  them  ;  viz  :  the  saintly  Bishop 
Allard,  its  first  Novice  Master  and  life-long  friend  ;  Rt.  Rev.  Dr. 
Guigues,  Bishop  of  Ottawa,  whose  devoted  friendship  and  assistance 
it  long  enjoyed;  and  finally  the  venerable  Archbishop  Bourget, 
who  during  forty-two  years  was  its  father  and  constant  protector. 
From  the  day  he  blessed  the  beginning  of  the  Congregation  in  1843 
till  his  death  in  1885,  this  great  and  wise  prelate  watched  over  all 
its  affairs,  gave  it  advice,  assistance,  counsel  and  protection.  He 
was,  in  fact,  a  second  founder. 

The  constitutions  and  rules  received  from  the  Sisters  of  the  Holy 
Names  in  France  were  modified  under  his  supervision  so  as  to  meet 
the  wants  and  fit  the  circumstances  of  a  new  people  and  a  new 
world  ;  and  out  of  respect  to  those  Sisters  the  same  beautiful  name 
was  retained  for  this  young  American  Congregation. 

These  constitutions  as  adopted  by  Mother  Rose's  Sisters  are  a 
masterpiece  of  religious  legislation,  and  they  display  great  spirit- 
ual foresight  and  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  wants  of  the  people 
as  well  as  the  dangers  to  be  met  in  supplying  those  wants. 

The  end  proposed  to  one  entering  the  Congregation  is  the 
loftiest  possible — God's  greater  glory  and  the  salvation  of  souls  ; 
and  the  means  by  which  this  divine  end  must  be  ever  and  untir- 


INTRODUCTION  15 

ingly  sought,  are  at  once  most  practical  and  truly  wise,  securing 
first  the  spiritual  advancement  and  perfection  of  the  religious,  and 
yet  urging  her  onward  in  procuring  the  salvation  of  others. 

They  provide  for  the  formation  of  thorough  Christian  teachers- 
heroic- women  whose  time,  strength,  talents,  zeal  are  all  constantly 
directed  to  the  one  grand  object.  Hence  the  greatest  discretion  and 
prudence  is  demanded  in  admitting  postulants  to  the  Congregation ; 
and  when  admitted,  very  great  care  in  training  them  to  be  ideal 
teachers,  religious,  learned,  apt,  zealous — imbued  not  only  with  the 
true  science  of  the  saints,  this  is  a  sine  qua  non  qualification,  but 
also  thoroughly  instructed  in  all  branches  of  learning. 

If  any  have  tastes  and  talents  for  special  branches  of  science  or 
art,  they  are  assisted  and  urged  to  cultivate  them.  A  mistress  of 
studies  chosen  for  her  talents,  learning  and  experience  instructs 
the  young  teachers,  and  supervises  their  studies  and  reading  ;  and 
the  rule  imposes  two  hours  of  daily  study  upon  all. 

This  constant  attention  to  the  education  of  the  novices  and 
their  formation  into  intelligent  and  practical  religious  teachers,  re- 
veals the  secret  of  that  marvellous  success  which  has  followed  the 
labors  of  these  ladies  all  over  the  country.  The  first  teachers  in 
the  Congregation  were  of  very  superior  order  and  highly  cultured 
in  the  sciences  ;  and  there  have  always  been  among  them  many 
gifted  souls,  eminent  not  only  for  virtue  but  also  for  their  great 
knowledge  and  marked  success  in  imparting  their  learning  to 
children. 

Mother  Rose  wished  her  daughters  to  strive  to  excel  in  all  that 
goes  to  make  a  true  teacher  ;  but  they  must  be  eminent  for  their 
knowledge  of  the  Christian  Doctrine  and  possess  tact  and  skill  in 
imparting  it  to  others.  In  her  visitations  she  was  wont  to  impress 
this  upon  the  minds  of  all  ;  and  the  children  would  say,  "  All  she 
tells  us  is  :  '  Love  God  and  learn  your  catechism.' " 

The  Sisters  of  the  Holy  Names  must  be  not  only  learned,  pains- 
taking teachers,  their  rules  require  them  to  be  Apostles  ;  they  must 


1«  SILVER    JUBILEK    MEMORIAL 

form  their  pupils  into  Christian  women,  into  women  of  enlight- 
ened faith,  of  high  principle,  of  angelic  purity  and  true  Christian 
charity  :  they  will  in  the  words  of  the  rule,  (chapter  I,  Art.  II,) 
"  inspire  children  with  hatred  of  vice,  desire  of  virtue  and  with  the  fair 
and  love  of  God ;  "  and  lest  the  good  seed  sown  so  lovingly  be  de- 
stroyed or  bring  forth  no  fruit,  the  teachers  must  as  far  as  possible 
watch  with  renewed  care  their  pupils  after  they  have  left  the  school 
and  gone  forth  amid  the  snares  and  dangers  of  the  world. 

Their  rule  bids  them  welcome  these  young  souls  seeking  counsel 
or  sympathy,  and  when  possible  to  unite  them  into  sodalities,  to 
procure  for  them  good  reading  and  all  healthful  help  and  association 
that  may  assist  to  bring  to  perfection  the  seed  sown  in  the  class-room. 
They  must  in  the  words  of  the  rule,  "  Assiduously  foster  ther/ro*//// 
of  virtue  in  the  souls  of  their  pupils  more  particularly  of  those 
who  having  left  school  are  engaged  in  active  life."  (Chap.  II,  Sec.  3.) 

Though  the  primary  object  of  the  Congregation  was  the  Chris- 
tian education  of  the  children  of  the  poor  and  middle  classes,  as  is 
expressly  stated  in  the  constitutions;  yet  from  the  beginning,  the 
Sisters  have  directed  schools  and  academies  for  the  higher  studies 
suitable  to  young  ladies,  and  in  these  Academies  have  been  given 
courses  in  Belles-lettres,  the  sciences,  music,  etc.,  and  those  accom- 
plishments usual  to  a  finished  female  education. 

In  1863  the  saintly  Pius  IX  praised  the  labors  of  the  Sisters  of 
the  Holy  Names  ;  on  Sept.  4,  1877,  the  Congregation  was  formally 
approved  by  the  Holy  See,  and  the  constitutions,  rules,  etc.,  were 
approved  by  a  Brief  of  Pope  Leo  XIII,  dated  Dec.  22,  1X86. 

Space  does  not  permit  us  to  dwell  longer  upon  these  admirable 
constitutions,  nor  to  speak  of  the  wise  form  of  government  they  em- 
body. In  reading  them  and  above  all  in  witnessing  their  applica- 
tion to  the  exigencies  of  the  time,  one  discovers  the  over  shadowing 
influence  of  those  two  master-minds,  the  gentle  Bishop  of  Geneva, 
St.  Francis  de  Sales,  and  the  soldier  of  Loyola,  St.  Ignatius. 

The  early  growth  of  the  Congregation  was  slow  and  steady,  yet 


BIRTHPLACE  OF   MOTHER  ROSE,  SAINT   ANTOINE 

FOUNDATION  HOUSE,  LONGUEUIL,  P.  Q. 


MOTHER  MARY  ROSE,  FOUNDRESS 


INTRODUCTION  17 

' 
with  an  energy  indicative  of  its  American  origin,  it  pushed  at  once 

into  the  front  rank.  Beside  teaching  bodies  venerable  by  their  long 
and  successful  labors  in  educating  the  young,  and  in  its  subsequent 
labors  throughout  the  Dominion  of  Canada  and  the  United  States, 
it  has  held  its  place  with  honor.  This  is  due,  after  God's  blessing 
upon  their  work,  to  the  enlightened  labors  and  wise  administration 
of  many  gifted  women  whom  God  called  to  serve  His  cause  of 
Christian  education  in  the  humble  serge  of  a  Sister  of  the  Holy 
Xames. 

The  Mother  House  and  Novitiate  at  Longueuil  were  transferred 
in  1860  to  Hochelaga,  now  a  part  of  the  city  of  Montreal.  This  is 
the  residence  of  the  Mother  General  and  her  assistants,  and  the  chief 
Convent  of  this  "  Pious  Congregation  "  to  use  the  words  of  the  Papal 
brief  of  1886. 

Since  Pius  IX  blessed  their  work  in  1863,  the  increase  and 
spread  of  the  Congregation  have  been  very  rapid  ;  and  now  it  has 
Convents  and  Schools  thoughout  Canada  and  in  many  parts  of  the 
United  States. 

In  Canada  it  has  seventy-four  Houses  and  directs  thirty- 
two  parochial  schools,  whilst  in  the  United  States  there  are  seven- 
teen Houses  and  twenty-eight  parochial  schools.  The  pupils 
attending  their  Academies  and  schools  number  no  less  than  fifteen 
thousand,  and  there  are  nearly  three  hundred  sodalities  under  their 
Care  and  direction. 

However  useful  and  pleasant  it  would  be  to  follow  the  spread 
of  the  Congregation  and  to  tell  of  its  great  work  and  triumphs  in 
the  cause  of  education,  the  limits  assigned  me  warn  me  to  confine 
my  few  words  to  their  labors  in  our  own  State  ;  and  from  what  we 
shall  see  accomplished  here,  we  may  form  a  fair  judgment  of  their 
work  in  other  spots  favored  by  their  presence. 

Twenty-five  years  ago,  on  May  10,  six  Sisters  of  the  Holy  Names 
arrived  in  Oakland  and  took  possession  of  a  neat  Convent  building 
on  Webster  Street,  and  a  few  days  later,  they  began  teaching  the 


18  SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

classes  in  the  parochial  school  at  St.  Mary's  Church.  Only  one  of 
that  pioneer  band  remains  in  Oakland,  viz.  :  Sister  M.  Celestine 
who  now  presides  over  the  school  in  St.  Frances  de  Sales'  parish. 

On  May  31,  the  first  pupil  entered  the  boarding-school  on  Web- 
ster Street ;  and  this  little  school  of  the  Convent  of  our  Lady  of  the 
Sacred  Heart  has  grown  to  be  one  of  the  finest  female  educational 
institutions  west  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  Besides  the  great  Acad- 
emy for  young  ladies,  there  is  a  large  Novitiate  and  Convent,  and 
each  'morning  bands  of  teachers  go  forth  to  take  charge  of  three 
large  and  flourishing  parochial  schools. 

From  this  Community  have  been  founded  the  Convent  of  the 
Holy  Names  in  St.  Joseph's  parish,  10th  Street,  San  Francisco,  the 
Academy  at  Ramona  in  the  South,  and  that  at  Spokane  Falls  in 
Washington.  The  six  Sisters  have  increased  to  be  one  hundred  and 
five  ;  and  in  the  interval  seventeen  have  fallen  at  their  posts.  Nigh 
seventeen  hundred  children  are  daily  under  their  instruction,  whilst 
all  over  the  State  are  vast  numbers  of  exemplary  Christian  maidens 
and  mothers  formed  by  their  teaching. 

With  much  reason  may  the  citizens  of  Oakland  pride  them- 
selves on  the  stately  Convent  by  the  shore  of  Lake  Merritt — a  thing 
of  beauty  to  the  eyes  of  men,  and  a  place  of  benediction  in  the  sight 
of  God.  Twenty-five  years  ago  this  site  was  in  the  country,  on  one 
side  was  wild,  brush-covered  land  that  formed  a  cover  for  rabbit  and 
quail  ;  on  the  other  the  hunter  was  lured  along  a  silent  shore  by 
flocks  of  duck  and  snipe,  mud  hens  and  rail. 

When  in  1865  Rev.  Michael  King,  Assistant  Pastor  at  St.  Pat- 
rick's in  San  Francisco,  was  appointed  Pastor  of  Oakland,  the  whole 
population  of  the  city  did  not  exceed  three  thousand  souls  ;  but  the 
young  Pastor  with  true  foresight,  divined  the  great  future  of  the  City 
of  Oaks,  and  with  characteristic  prudence  he  at  once  began  to 
prepare  for  that  future.  He  wished  to  have  the  mothers  of  his  par- 
ish, educated  Christian  women,  wisely  reflecting  that  if  he  could 
accomplish  that,  his  work  as  pastor  would  redound  to  the  glory  of 


INTRODUCTION  19 

God  and  to  the  spread  of  the  Church.  Happy  that  land  whose 
mothers  are  truly  Christian. 

Whilst  Assistant  Pastor  of  St.  Patrick's  in  San  Francisco, 
Father  King  met  Mother  Teresa,  Mother  General  of  the  Sisters  of  the 
Holy  Names  of  Jesus  and  Mary.  She  was  on  her  way  to  visit  her 
Sisters  in  Oregon  and  had  with  her  a  number  of  Sisters  going  thither 
to  teach.  At  the  request  of  the  late  saintly  Archbishop  Alemany, 
he  made  arrangements  with  the  Mother  General  for  the  foundation 
of  a  Convent  of  the  Holy  Names  in  San  Francisco.  The  Mother 
General  promised  to  send  Sisters  ;  and  they  were  appointed  and  pre- 
pared to  come,  but  financial  difficulties  prevented  His  Grace  from 
securing  the  ground  for  a  Convent  as  he  had  wished,  and  hence  their 
coming  was  postponed  until  a  suitable  place  and  buildings  should 
be  procured. 

Father  King,  full  of  plans  for  his  parish  now  bethought  him  of 
these  Sisters  awaiting  the  call  of  the  Archbishop  ;  and  he  be- 
sought His  Grace  to  waive  his  claim  to  them  for  San  Francisco, 
and  to  allow  them  to  go  to  Oakland.  He  pleaded  so  well  that  his 
petition  was  granted.  The  zealous  Pastor  at  once  took  means  to  se- 
cure a  lot  suitable  for  a  Convent  and  school  buildings.  This  was  not 
an  easy  task  when  money  was  wanting,  and  few  shared  his  own 
ardent  aspirations. 

Father  King  had  what  was  better  than  gold,  a  stout  heart  and  a 
strong  will  with  a  great  confidence  in  God,  and  trust  in  his  own 
flock.  Not  a  few  perhaps  thought  him  over  sanguine.  Why  should 
such  a  small  parish  undertake  such  an  extraordinary  and  expensive 
work  ?  Was  not  the  Pastor  asking  too  much  ?  Would  not  a  more 
modest  school  do  for  many  years  to  come  ? 

His  Grace  full  of  prudence  wished  him  to  buy  a  plot  near  the 
church  ;  but  neither  pecuniary  difficulties,  nor  the  prudent  sugges- 
tions of  the  Archbishop,  nor  the  thousand  other  obstacles  that  arose 
could  check  the  ardor  or  change  the  broad  views  of  Father  King. 

He  ever  looked  into  the  great  future  of  Oakland  ;  and  he  would 


20  SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

build  for  that  future.  His  choice  of  a  site  for  the  Convent  was  truly 
happy  ;  and  it  would  be  difficult  to  have  made  a  better  one.  The 
land  having  been  secured,  the  Convent  building  must  be  erected. 
It  was  here  that  Father  King  revealed  his  true  character  and  proved 
that  he  knew  the  hearts  of  his  people. 

Having  procured  picks,  shovels  and  a  wheel-barrow,  and  having 
secured  the  co-operation  of  one  of  his  parishioners,  Father  King 
with  his  friend  repaired  to  the  land  purchased.  They  took  off  their 
coats  and  having  traced  the  ground  plan  for  a  building  30  x  40,  be- 
gan to  dig  the  foundations  of  the  first  Convent  of  the  Sisters  of  the 
Holy  Names  in  California.  The  writer  thinks  a  picture  telling  the 
story  of  this  first  day's  work  should  adorn  the  Convent  walls. 

When  the  Catholics  saw  their  Pastor  pick  in  hand  digging  awn y 
like  a  common  workman,  their  hearts  were  stirred  and  their  better 
nature  moved.  Father  King's  Convent  was  not  long  building.  His 
flock,  charmed  and  completely  won  by  his  self  devotion,  soon  put 
into  his  hands  four  thousand  five  hundred  dollars  ;  and  by  May 
1868  he  had  the  building  ready  to  receive  Sister  M.  Salome  and  her 
five  companions,  the  pioneer  colony. 

Every  year  since  has  witnessed  the  increase  of  that  little 
colony,  and  widened  the  circle  of  their  work.  Pupils  have 
come  in  numbers  to  enjoy  the  great  advantages  of  their  teach- 
ing ;  and  God  has  sent  into  their  ranks  many  zealous,  talented 
women,  eager  to  serve  God  and  instruct  God's  little  ones  under  the 
banner  of  the  Holy  Names  of  Jesus  and  Mary. 

This  increase  in  number  enabled  them  to  open  other  Convents 
and  schools.  Hence  in  August,  1871,  as  Father  King  in  1865  fore- 
told Archbishop  Alemany,  a  colony  went  from  Oakland  to  take 
possession  of  the  Convent  in  St.  Joseph's  parish  on  10th  Street,  San 
Francisco.  Nine  years  later  St.  Lawrence  parochial  school,  Temescal , 
fell  under  their  care  ;  and  on  October  5,  1886,  Sisters  of  the  Holy 
Names  were  seen  teaching  in  St.  Rose's  parochial  school,  San  Fran- 
cisco. On  July  15,  1887,  we  find  them  in  charge  of  the  parochial 


INTRODUCTION  21 

school  of  St.  Francis  de  Sales  parish,  Oakland.  But  the  most  im- 
portant foundation  was  that  of  a  Convent  at  Ramona,  Los  Angeles 
County.  The  buildings  were  erected  in  1889,  and  the  Academy 
opened  to  pupils  in  1890.  Besides  this  wonderful  expansion  we 
must  not  forget  the  little  colony  sent  all  the  way  to  Spokane  Falls, 
Washington,  from  Oakland. 

The  little  building  erected  by  the  zeal  of  Father  King  was  soon 
so  overcrowded  that  in  1873  a  more  commodious  structure  was 
built.  This  also  proving  inadequate  for  increasing  wants,  was  so 
enlarged  and  repaired  in  1885,  as  to  make  it  one  of  the  best  ap- 
pointed and  most  elegant  Academies  west  of  the  Rocky  Mountains. 
In  this  same  year  also  was  completed  a  large  and  beautiful  Chapel. 

The  increase  in  the  number  of  members  has  been  so  gratifying 
that  in  1892  a  large  Novitiate  building  was  added  to  the  Convent 
buildings.  We  must  also  notice  the  purchase  of  a  farm  near  Hay- 
wards,  upon  which  is  a  pretty  incipient  villa,  called  Our  Lady's 
Nook,  a  country  retreat  for  the  convalescent  and  the  much  worked 
and  weary  teachers.  Hither  they  go  on  vacation  days  to  find  rest, 
and  new  vigor  for  the  long  hours  in  class-rooms. 

The  first  Superior,  Sr.  M.  Salome  now  in  Key  West,  Florida, 
was  succeeded  in  a  few  months  by  Mother  M.  J.  Baptist  who 
governed  the  Convent  of  our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart  during  nine- 
teen years,  with  great  ability  and  wonderful  success.  Mother  Bap- 
tist was  a  remarkable  woman  of  superior  talents  and  great  powers 
of  administration.  Full  of  the  true  spirit  of  her  Pious  Institute, 
zealous  for  God's  glory  and  keenly  alive  to  the  importance  of  a  true 
Catholic  education,  she  threw  her  whole  soul  into  the  work  given 
her  Congregation.  After  God's  blessing  the  great  success  of  the 
Sisters  of  the  Holy  Names  in  California  is  due  to  the  energy,  good 
sense  and  tireless  zeal  of  Mother  M.  J.  Baptist.  The  happy  results 
of  her  government  in  California  pointed  her  out  as  a  fit  person  to 
govern  the  whole  Congregation  ;  and  in  1886  she  was  elected 
Mother  General. 


22  SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

She  was  followed  in  the  Superiorship  of  the  Convent  of  our 
Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart  by  Mother  Michael  of  the  Saints,  until  the 
appointment  of  the  present  Superior,  Mother  Elizabeth  on  June 
22,  1888.  This  excellent  lady  continued  the  great  work  begun  by 
Mother  Baptist,  in  the  same  spirit  and  with  the  same  happy  results. 
To  her  motherly  solicitude,  her  hard  working  teachers  are  indebted 
for  Our  Lady's  Nook.  Possessed  of  fine  administrative  ability, 
thorough  knowledge  of  the  wants  of  the  country,  and  a  great  good 
heart,  she  is  at  once  a  wise  Superior  and  a  tender  Mother. 

With  such  Superiors  who  have  been  seconded  by  most  devoted 
self-sacrificing  Assistants  and  by  teachers  of  great  excellence,  and 
by  religious  of  rare  virtue,  the  progress  of  the  Congregation  is  no 
longer  a  marvel.  The  Novitiate  is  most  flourishing  and  is  a  true 
nursery  of  saintly  religious  and  earnest,  enlightened  teachers — 
teachers  who  have  before  them  a  great  field. 

The  grand  work  done  during  the  dead  twenty-five  full  years  is 
a  pledge  of  yet  greater  work  to  be  done.  This  Congregation  has  a 
great  future  before  it  in  California  ;  the  good  done  by  the  Convent 
on  Lake  Merritt  and  its  zealous  band  of  teachers  will  increase  a 
hundred  fold.  It  takes  no  prophet  to  say  that  Ramona  yet  strug- 
gling in  the  South  will  rival  its  mother  in  good  deeds,  and  in  turn 
become  mother  of  many  Houses  and  Schools.  At  its  silver  jubilee, 
the  chronicler  will  record  greater  things  than  we  have  done. 

Our  introduction  grows  beyond  its  limits,  yet  one  word  more 
to  point  out  a  charming  trait  of  these  Sisters,  a  legacy  from  their 
gentle  Mother  Rose.  She  would  have  her  daughters  thorough 
teachers  and  zealous  Apostles  ;  but  before  all  they  must  be  devoted 
friends  and  loving  mothers  to  their  pupils.  Judging  from  the  his- 
tory of  the  Congregation,  it  seems  to  be  a  grace  of  their  vocation  to 
be  such,  and  to  win  and  hold  the  hearts  of  those  who  study  any 
length  of  time  under  them. 

This  unselfish  devotedness  of  these  Sisters  begets  in  their  grate- 
ful children  an  attachment  which  is  undying  and  which  has  a  char- 


INTRODUCTION  23 

acteristic  sincerity  and  strength  that  is  as  beautiful  as  it  is  rare.  The 
writer  has  been  so  charmed  by  this  devotedness  in  which  there  is  no 
softness,  and  so  struck  by  this  unusual  attachment  that  he  deems 
it  worthy  of  special  mention,  revealing  as  it  does  the  work  of  the 
true  Christian  teacher. 

We  must  close — The  Congregation  of  the  Holy  Names  of  Jesus 
and  Mary  has  deserved  well  of  society  and  of  God's  Church  in  Cal- 
ifornia. During  a  quarter  of  a  century  it  has  labored  earnestly  in 
sanctifying  and  lifting  up  thousands  of  children  who  have  received 
from  its  devoted  teachers  a  Christian  education ;  and  to-day  they  are 
training  in  California  alone,  seventeen  hundred  girls  to  Christian 
virtue,  and  instructing  them  in  all  branches  of  learning. 

Happy,  thrice  happy  that  country  which  is  blessed  by  such 
teachers  !  for  they  who  form  the  Mothers  of  a  nation,  shape  the  des- 
tiny of  that  nation. 

R.  E.  K.,  S.  J., 

Santa  Clara,  Cal, 


As  WE  advance  in  life  we  look  onward  less  and  upward  more. 
We  say  we  are  less  joyous  but  we  are  more  peaceful.  When  every 
outward  object  has  failed  us  we  turn  to  whatever  temple  we  have 
erected  within,  and  if  the  outside  structure  has  not  entirely  hidden 
all,  there  will  be  bright  star-flashes  and  glorious  sunshine  struggling 
down  to  us. — Kate 


//      v,y    jf 

s-Z*sfaS^  ^&j^t,4tSt*/    ?      ^ffl&swtt/^ 
/  f '  >f 


of 


(Woven  for  the  Silver  Jubilee  of  the  Convent  of  Our  Lady  of 
the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  California,  and  offered  with  fondest  con- 
gratulations to  the  Sisters  of  the  Holy  Names,  founders  and  faithful 
guardians  of  that  Sacred  Home  of  Religion  and  Science.) 

Thus,  from  out  the  Sunset  Land 

Love's  celestial  message  came  ! 
"Consecrated  vestal  band  ! 

'•  Bearers  of  My  Saving  Name, — 
"  Twined  with  hers,  to  whose  blest  care 

"  Once  her  God  His  Childhood  gave, — 
"  Rise  !  and  seek  My  Vineyard  fair 

Waiting  by  the  Western  wave  ! " 

Heeding  well  that  summons  sweet 

On  the  Master's  quest  to  roam, 
Left  His  handmaids  lov'd  retreat 

In  their  far  Canadian  home.        , 
And,  where  Western  hills  are  crowned 

With  a  fadeless  purple  glow 
Fitting  spot  for  toil  they  found, 

Five  and  twenty  years  ago  ! 

By  the  quiet  lake  that  hid 

Near  a  City's  throbbing  heart, 
Shrined  in  calmness,  well-nigh  'mid 

Tumult  of  that  busy  mart, 

*  25 


26  SILVER    JUBILEE   MEMORIAL 

Builded  they  their  simple  home, 

And,  Heav'nward,  in  the  sunny  glow, 

Reared  the  cross  that  crowned  its  dome — 
Five  and  twenty  years  ago  I 

In  the  Master's  service  there 

Have  they  labored  long  and  well  ? 
Let  the  ripened  harvest  fair, 

Let  the  laden  vineyard  tell  I 
Yes  !  by  countless  treasures  won, 

Favored  hearts  full  gladly  show 
Fadeless  fruit  of  toil  begun 

Five  and  twenty  years  ago  ! 

In  the  worldly  desert  air 

Blooming  with  celestial  grace, 
Or  in  cloister-gardens  fair 

Finding  safest,  fittest  place — 
Winners  of  unfading  fame, 

Grateful  meed  they  well  may  owe 
To  the  guides  that  hither  came, — 

Five  and  twenty  years  ago  I 

Guardian  of  that  glorious  band  I 

With  thy  vowed  ones,  now,  to  thee, 
Daughters  of  that  Golden  Land, 

Dwellers  by  the  Sunset  Sea 
First  and  fondest  tribute  pay 

For  the  love  that  bade  thee  go. — 
Leading  o'er  that  unknown  way, — 

Five  and  twenty  years  ago  I 

Sower  of  the  earliest  seed 
In  this  Paradise-parterre  1 


.1     WREATH   OF   RHYME  27 

Gather,  now,  thy  labor's  meed — 

Of  its  bloom  and  fruitage  rare 
Take  thy  guerdon,  grandly  won, — 

Grateful  hearts,  where  ripened,  glow 
Harvests  rich,  thy  toil  begun 

Five  and  twenty  years  ago  I 

Fitting  head  of  Order  blest !  * 

When  a  golden  gala-day 
Shall  replace,  within  the  West 

Faded  gleam  of  silver  ray, 
May'st  thou  greet  its  festal  sheen, 

Saying,  "  Hail  !  Memento-glow 
"  Of  that  blest  foundation-scene 

"  Of  fifty  glorious  years  ago  !  " 

Now,  a  fadeless  wreath  of  fame 

Bring  we,  on  his  brow  to  place  f 
Who  doth  wear  his  royal  name, 

With  such  meek  and  Christ-like  grace, 
And,  who,  at  his  Lord's  behest 

Called  ye,  sacred  band  !  to  sow 
Heavenly  seed  within  the  West 

Five  and  twenty  years  ago  ! 

Faithful  shepherd  !     Pastor  true  ! 

Serving  e'en  His  u  least  ones  "  needs  ! 
Dauntless  hand  to  dare,  and  do 

For  the  Master,  hero-deeds  ! 

*  Rev.  Mother  Baptist,  for  seventeen  years  Superior  of  the  Convent,  and 
now  Mother-General  of  the  Order. 

tRev.  M.  King,  Pastor  of  the  Church  of  the  Immaculate  Conception, 
Oakland. 


28  SILVER   JUBILEE   MEMORIAL 

'Mid  his  labors  grandly  wrought, 
This  is  crowned  with  brightest  glow : 

He  these  venial  toilers  brought, 
Five  and  twenty  years  ago  ! 

And  he  planned  their  earliest  home — 

Finding  rest  for  Faith  Divine, 
With  fair  Science,  'neath  its  dome — 

And,  unto  its  simple  shrine 
At  his  summons,  came  his  Lord 

Living  Manna  to  bestow, — 
Love-sent  laborers'  rich  reward,— 

Five  and  twenty  years  ago  ! 

Now,  a  noble  structure  stands 

By  the  bright  lake's  peaceful  breast- 
But  his  Heavenward-lifted  hands, 

And  his  Ministrations  blest 
Guides  and  guided  still  may  claim, 

Still  his  care  paternal  know, 
E'en  as  those  who  hither  came 

Five  and  twenty  years  ago! 

So,  a  festal  garland  fair 

His  by  sacred  right  should  be — 
He  hath  won  a  worthy  share 

In  this  Silver  jubilee — 
And  its  star-like  rays  serene 

O'er  him  shed  memento-glow 
Of  that  blest  foundation-scene 

Of  five  and  twenty'  years  ago  ! 

Fadeless  picture  I     Still  complete  ! 
All  the  band  then  gathered  here 


A    WREATH   OF   RHYME  29 

Twined  in  deathless  union  sweet, 

Brightly  visioned,  yet  appear — 
E'en  the  loved  ones,  gone  before 

To  the  bliss  ye  all  shall  know, 
Join  the  sacred  scene  once  more 

Of  five  and  twenty  years  ago. 

Aye  !  enshrined  in  silv'ry  light, 

Gazing  from  their  home  above 
Sainted  faces,  pure  and  bright, 

Lavish  smiles  of  fadeless  love 
On  their  Convent  home  adowii, 

While  each  saith,  in  murmurs  low, 
"  Sisters!  toiling  for  the  crown 

"  By  love  promised,  long  ago, 

"Patience!  for  a  little  space! 

Yours  our  rich  reward  shall  be — 
Passing  feasts  shall  yield  their  place 

To  immortal  Jubilee. 
Then,  'mid  gleam  of  matchless  rays 

Ye  shall  say  :     'How  faint  the  glow 
Of  our  earthly  festal  days, 

Faded,  endless  years  ago! '  " 

HARRIET  M.  SKIDMORE  (MARIE) 
May,  189  S. 


'Tis  THE  capacity  for  sorrow  that  measures  the  refinement  and 
delicacy  of  the  character. — K.  K. 


Listen  to  the  silvery  chime  of  the  Jubilee  Bells!  borne  along  the 
balmy  air  of  May,  to  the  violet-hued  mountains  of  the  Coast-Range. 
The  great  finger  of  the  Dial  of  Time  points  to  a  quarter  of  a  Century 
since  the  Convent  of  our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  first 
saw  its  Portals  open  and  its  joyous  Pupils  flock  under  its  protecting 
spire. 

As  the  rippling  laugh  of  the  scholars,  old  and  new,  re-echoes  far 
and  wide  in  the  flower-decked  rooms  and  in  the  perfumed  grounds  ; 
let  us  reverently  lift  the  misty  veil  of  time  and  cast  a  look  at  the 
dear  Pioneers  of  the  beloved  Sisterhood.  What  a  fair  vision  meets 
our  view. 

It  is  the  holy  hour  of  Vespers  in  the  Cathedral  of  the  City  of 
Mary,  far-famed  Montreal.  The  Bishop  sits  on  his  throne  in  the 
Sanctuary,  surrounded  by  a  halo  of  Priests  and  Acolytes.  Loud 
peals  the  great  Organ,  and  solemnly  the  deep-toned  voices  of  the 
Choir  chant  the  thrilling  prayers  of  the  King  Prophet.  The  last 
sounds  have  died  away  along  the  arched  vault.  Innumerable  tapers 
illumine  the  grand  Altar  ;  the  incense  clouds  the  air;  the  Bishop 
kneels  in  his  Benediction  Cope.  But  why,  before  ascending  the 
steps,  does  he  look  up?  We  follow  his  gaze  and  behold,  away  off, 
above  the  Altar,  six  black-robed  Nuns  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  the 
Queen  of  Heaven,  in  a  small  Oratory  opening  into  the  Church. 
With  solemn  prayer  the  Lord's  Minister  places  them  under  the  care 

30 


TWENTY-FIVE    YEARS   AGO  31 

of  the  Virgin,  "  Star  of  the  Sea,"  for  they  are  going  to  unfurl  the 
banner  of  the  Holy  Names  of  Jesus  and  Mary  in  the  far-away  land 
of  the  Pacific  Slope,  and  many  a  weary  day  they  shall  journey  over 
the  Oceans  before  they  reach  the  Golden  Gate  of  California.  This 
is  the  eve  of  their  departure,  soon  shall  we  see  them  on  their  way 
at  the  bidding  of  obedience.  Gray  dawns  the  early  April  day,  but 
in  the  dim  light  we  can  see  our  dear  young  pioneers  kneeling  in  the 
Chapel  of  their  sweet  Convent-Home,  Hochelaga.  Two  Missionaries, 
bound  for  distant  parts,  are  pronouncing  their  final  vows  ;  one,  is 
now  an  inhabitant  of  beautiful,  pine-clad  Oregon,  and  the  other,  the 
leader  of  the  little  band,  is  dwelling  in  the  shadow  of  the  Palm- 
trees  of  the  coral  isle,  Key-West.  Not  many  hours  has  the  day 
grown  older,  when  on  this  13th  of  April,  1868,  the  tread  of  many 
feet  is  heard  in  the  hitherto  silent  corridor  :  'Tis  the  numerous 
ranks  of  the  Sisterhood,  who  have  been  warned  by  the  sound  of  the 
bell,  to  come  and  bid  Adieu  to  the  six  travellers  taking  their  depar- 
ture for  the  far  West. 

Jt  is  the  15th.  The  rain  is  flooding  the  streets,  imparting  a  dismal 
look  to  everything  around,  but  these  brave  pioneers  wend  their  way 
to  the  dark,  looming  ship  that  is  to  bear  them  over  the  waters  of 
the  Atlantic.  The  deck  of  the  Ocean  Queen  is  damp  and  slip- 
pery, and  the  weeping  skies  have  turned  the  azure  hue  of  the  Bay 
into  inky  blackness.  But,  lo!  the  dark  clouds  roll  away,  and  the 
sun,  darting  his  million  shafts  of  light  around,  illuminates  the 
scene.  The  whistle  shrieks,  the  sails  are  hoisted,  a  thrill  of  life  runs 
through  the  huge  frame,  the  vessel  has  left  its  moorings  and  is  turn- 
ing her  prow  seaward.  Handkerchiefs  are  waving  sad  Adieus. 
Our  Pioneers  have  commenced  their  westward  journey,  they  are 
straining  their  eyes  to  catch  a  last  glimpse  of  the  dear  Mothers  and 
Sisters  who  watch  the  receding  ship.  Let  us  follow  them  in  spirit 
over  the  wide  expanse  and  eagerly  listen ! 

"  The  hours  and  days  have  come  and  passed  like  the  foam  of  the 
crested  wave.  We  are  now  at  the  25th  of  changeable  April.  It  is 


32  SILVER    JUBILEE    MK.MORIAL 

early  morn  and  we  sit  on  deck,  looking  at  a  far-away  sail  skirting 
the  horizon.  It  would  seem  like  a  phantom  ship,  were  it  not  con- 
verted by  the  brilliant  day-light  into  a  radiant  object.  What  a 
sight  meets  our  view  as  we  turn  our  gaze  westward  :  a  long  sandy 
shore,  gleaming  in  the  distance,  tall  trees  balancing  their  rich,  green 
foliage  against  the  dazzling  skies.  The  majestic  Ocean  Queen  advan- 
ces leisurely  on  the  mirrored  bosom  of  the  great  Atlantic  and  now,  we 
see  a  small  to\\n  nestling  among  orange -groves,  and  graceful  cocoa- 
nut  trees  waving  in  the  warm  sunshine  their  plume-like  branches. 
We  are  in  the  tropics.  Aspinwall  next  greets  us,  the  whole  of  the 
dark  population  turns  out  to  see  the  anchoring  of  the  crowded  ship. 
To  our  northern  eyes,  their  costume  is  all  too  scant}',  but  when  we 
will  have  felt  the  overpowering  heat  a  few  hours,  we  will  wonder  at 
it  no  longer.  We  land  with  umbrellas  over  our  heads,  not  that  it  is 
drizzling  but  the  hot  sun  permeating  everything,  gives  us  too  ardent 
a  welcome.  Now  we  are  seated  in  the  kindly  shade  of  a  veranda 
whence  we  can  see  the  dusky  people  of  the  Isthmus  doing  their 
marketing.  Look  at  the  exuberant  piles  of  the  Golden-apple  of  the 
South,  the  luscious  bananas  hanging  in  serried  ranks  on  the  long 
stem,  the  delicious  pine-apple  with  its  crown  of  glory.  The  merry 
urchins  run  about,  wearing  head -gear  made  of  the  fibres  of  the 
cocoanut-tree,  with  green  parrots  perched  on  their  shoulders,  trying 
to  sell  them  to  the  passengers  going  to  California.  Some  of  the  for- 
eigners buy  the  prattlers  to  make  a  new  addition  to  the  crew.  The.re 
is  a  goodly  noise  of  screaming,  talking,  parrot  and  monkey  chatter- 
ing, and  guitar-twanging.  At  last  we  hear  above  all  that  hubbub, 
the  sharp  whistle  of  the  locomotive.  In  haste  we  board  the  train 
and  are  carried  across  the  isthmus  at  thundering  speed,  whirling 
past  dark,  luxuriant  forests,  with  immense  palm-trees  waving  lan- 
guidly in  the  sultry  air  their  huge  branches  of  leaves,  interlaced 
with  long  trailing  vines,  covered  with  large  scarlet  blossoms.  AVe 
rush  over  the  Chagres  river,  a  beautiful  little  stream  of  limpid 
water  coming  down  from  these  deep  tropical  shadows,  to  sparkle  in 


REV.  MICHAEL  KING 
RECTOR  CHURCH  OF  THE  IMMACULATE  CONCEPTION,  OAKLAND,  CAL. 


TWENTY-FIVE    YE  All*    Ado  33 

the  clear  day-light.  On  its  banks  there  is  a  small  village  whose 
houses  look  quite  airy,  being  built  on  long  stakes  that  makes  the 
whole  under  part  a  kind  of  veranda,  where  the  sleepy  inhabitants 
may  rest  at  leisure.  Some  of  them  look  up  now  and  seem  sur- 
prised at  the  great  amount  of  useless  activity  we  display. 

From  the  terminus  on  the  shores  of  the  Pacific,  we  are  conveyed 
in  small  boats  to  the  Golden  Age.  Our  frail  barks  dance  on  the 
waters  and  tumble  down  the  foamy  waves  like  mere  shells ;  it  is 
rather  uncomfortable,  but  we  soon  reach  our  steamer  and  are  taken 
aboard.  In  the  distance  the  quaint  old  city  of  Panama  is  lost  in 
the  glory  of  the  dying  day.  The  Golden  Age  has  managed  to 
secure  1300  inmates  for  the  trip  to  the  Western  Emporium. 

April  is  waning  and  we  are  still  on  the  billowy  home  of  the 
mariner.  Our  patiently  plodding  steamer  is  taking  a  short  rest. 
We  are  on  the  Mexican  Coast,  right  in  front  of  Acapulco,  and  can 
hear  the  chime  of  silvery-toned  Spanish  bells.  It  is  the  hour  of 
prayer  in  the  old  Church  on  that  high  white  bluff  running  down  to 
the  sea.  We  seem  to  be  locked  in,  as  all  around  are  mountains  at 
whose  base  we  see  plantations  of  strange  looking  trees  ;  their  tall 
naked  trunks  would  be  ugly  were  it  not  for  their  glorious  tufted 
heads.  The  town  is  small  but  possesses  an  old  fort,  which  frowns 
on  us,  as  if  to  ask  our  errand  in  this  "  terra  caliente  "  of  old  Mexico. 

The  smiling  month  of  May  has  dawned  for  us  on  the  great 
Ocean.  The  Pacific  has  borne  its  name  well  for  us  ;  its  waters  rip- 
ple like  that  of  a  beautiful  lake  in  a  secluded  dell.  It  is  already  the 
sixth,  in  the  evening,  and  we  are  silently  watching  the  sunset  gates 
swinging  on  their  golden  hinges.  Violet,  pink,  and  soft  sea-green 
tints  spread  over  the  heavens,  while  gorgeous  clouds  of  trailing  light 
fling  the  loveliest  hues  over  the  tranquil  waters.  Our  ship  is  fol- 
lowed by  the  diaphanous  colors  and  its  huge  blackness  disappears  in 
roseate  beauty.  By  and  by  Twilight  closes  her  eyes  and  the  Queen 
of  Night  steps  forth.  Lo  !  it  illumines  the  mountains  of  a  distant 
shore.  All  breathless  we  look,  and  behold  for  the  first  time  the  dim 
outlines  of  our  Promised  Land,  fair  California. 


34  SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

It  is  May  the  tenth,  we  have,  at  last,  reached  the  harbor  of  the 
great  Metropolis  that  stands  within  the  portals  of  the  Golden  Gate. 
Our  steamer  has  stolen  in  silently,  shrouded  in  the  midnight  gloom. 
What  a  glorious  vision  awaits  our  waking  hour  !  A  large  city  lies 
before  us  and  though  it  is  very  early,  the  infant  day  having  barely 
opened  its  eyes,  there  is  even  then  great  bustle  and  confusion.  The 
street-cars  are  rumbling  down  to  the  wharf,  carriages  whirl  past, 
busy  men  are  banging  baggage  up  and  down,  and  heavy  carts  are  al- 
ready on  their  way  toward  lofty  commercial  houses.  As  we  ride  down 
the  thoroughfares,  everything  is  beautiful  to  our  sea-wearied  eyes  ; 
even  the  dust-covered  shrubs  by  the  way  are  an  elysian  verdure  to 
us  lone  voyagers.  Present!}',  winding  up  a  hill  we  come  to  the  door 
of  the  hospitable  Sisters  of  Mercy,  who  receive  us  with  open  arms. 
Rev.  Father  M.  King  comes  to  meet  and  salute  the  little  band  that 
have  traveled  so  far  to  help  him  in  the  arduous  labors  of  his  ministry. 
Never  has  the  great  heart  of  the  Pastor  failed  us  in  need,  and  always 
has  he  been  the  Father  and  Guardian  of  his  religious  children. 

We  cross  the  bay  on  a  little  steamer  and  land  at  the  "  Point,'1 
a  veritable  forest  of  gnarled  California  oaks.  Flowers  are  nodding 
their  lovely  blossoms  everywhere  and  the  air  is  perfumed  with  their 
fragrant  breath.  Our  good  Pastor's  home  is  literally  embowered  in 
roses.  Further  on  by  the  banks  of  a  smiling  lake,  back  of  the  lofty 
mountains  on  whose  top  still  sparkle  last  winter's  snows,  in  a  verdant 
valley  stands  the  modest  little  Convent  which  is  to  be  our  future 
home.  We  step  down  and  the  doors  of  the  Convent  of  Our  Lady  of 
the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  open  to  admit  its  first  inmates  ;  Sr.  M. 
Salome,  Sr.  M.  Anthony,  Sr.  M.  Marceline,  Sr.  M.  Celestine,  Sr.  M. 
Seraphine  and  Sr.  M.  Cyril.  We  exclaim  with  the  Prophet  : 
"  Beautiful  is  thy  tabernacle,  0*  Israel  !  here  shall  we  dwell  to  serve 
the  Lord  together." 

A  PIONEER. 


Pea<j>b  pay,  Jepb.  2yk\3,  1868 
(AFTER  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  CONVENT) 

The  year  is  clad  in  leafy  garb 

Of  crimson  bright  and  mellow  gold, 
As  if  she  mocked  the  angel  death 

Whose  stroke  would  lay  her  pale  and  cold. 
Now  fades  the  mountain's  velvet  robe, 

'Neath  summer's  warm  and  fervent  kiss; 
The  warble  of  the  woodland  bird, 

We  sadly  in  the  valley  miss. 

The  autumn  winds  e'er  sing  to  all 
A  requiem  beautiful  and  wild, 
A  whisper  of  the  world  of  rest 
Awaiting  those  who've  nobly  toiled. 
Though  freighted  is  its  perfumed  breath 
.     With  sadness,  yet  a  welcome  day 
Of  sunshine  does  it  usher  in, 

Through  misty  shadows  gone  astray. 

Our  hearts  all  filled  with  love  and  joy — 
In  gladness  we  have  gather'd  here. 

To  lift  our  voice  in  childish  praise 
And  love,  to  one,  whom  all  revere. 

35 


36  SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

But  words  are  empty  things  at  best; 

But  echo  feelings  of  the  heart 
And  show  unto  a  careless  world, 

Of  what  we  feel,  the  weaker  part. 

0  Father,  ne'er  can  we  give  thanks 

For  holy  work  so  well  begun; 
For  purest  training  and  the  best, 

Of  the  persuasive  tireless  nun. 
Within  the  sanctuary's  pale; 

Within  the  chapel  hushed  and  dim, 
Commingled  e'er  will  be  thy  name 

In  our  sincere  thanksgiving  hymn. 

Forgotten,  never,  in  our  prayer, 

Where'er  our  footsteps  chance  to  roam 
Will  be  thy  name,  0  Father,  dear, 

Or  our  beloved  Convent  home. 
And  yet  'tis  not  an  abbey  old 

That  has  escaped  the  tyrant's  grasp, 
And  guiltless  are  its  virgin  walls, 

Of  withered  ivy's  loving  clasp; 

Nor  old  and  mouldering  column  high, 

Nor  ruined,  crumbling,  moss-topped  arch, 
In  whispers  low  and  mournful  speak 

Of  cruel  Time's  remorseless  march. 
A  simple  tombstone  and  a  cross 

O'ershadows  now  the  flowering  sod, 
And  tells  us  that  one  angel  more 

Now  pleads  for  us  in  the  courts  of  God. 

Through  infancy  we  look  upon 
A  vista  of  oncoming  years, 


ADDRESS    GIVEN    TO    REV.    FATHER    KING  37 

And  seek  through  dimness  to  descry 
The  guerdon  which  their  ending  bears. 

For  thine  own  self,  a  monument, 

More  grand  than  hero's  laureled  tomb, 

Thou  rearest  crowning  it  with  flowers 
More  fair  than  valley's  richest  bloom. 

But   God,  in  justice  can  reward 

So  holy  and  so  high  a  deed ; 
The  harvest  may'st  thou  live  to  see 

Of  what  thou  so  west  now  in  seed. 
To  see  this  Convent  stately  rise 

Still  guided  by  this  Sister  band; 
Its  pupils,  may'st  thou  live  to  see, 

The  gifted,  noblest  in  the  land. 

When  thee,  the  angel  death  will  free, 
From  weary  care  and  crushing  strife, 

Oh!  mayst  thou  greet  thy  children  each, 
In  that,  the  purer,  better  life. 

S.  M.  I. 


EVERY  day  is  a  syllable  ;  every  month  a  word  to  make  the  sen- 
tence of  a  vear.— A".  K. 


of   fp.  ^apbrade  of  the   facr^d  <fleaph 

J  J 


'Tis  the  feast  of  the  angel  of  healing, 
In  the  glow  of  October's  late  hours, 

And  the  day  has  been  vocal  with  wishes 
And  wreathed  with  the  fairest  of  flowers. 

Like  the  songs  and  the  smiles  of  the  angel 

Of  peace  and  of  joy  all  the  day, 
From  the  true  hearts  of  kindred  and  friendship 

What  sunshine,  has  flooded  my  way. 

What  greetings  and  prayers,  soulful  treasures, 
That  are  part  of  the  life  whence  they  flow, 

Tender  tokens  of  selfless  remembrance, 

Blooms  too  bright  for  this  brief  life  below. 

Blooms  of  kindness  so  sweet  and  so  fragrant 
That  they  thrill  me  with  grateful  surprise, 

For  they  bear  on  their  exquisite  petals, 
The  breath  of  God's  love  from  the  skies. 

'Tis  the  feast  of  the  angel  of  healing, 
Of  the  angel  of  Peace  and  of  Love, 

But  I  miss  in  the  glow  of  the  sunset 
The  gleam  of  a  snowy- winged  dove. 


JIE.MKNBRANCE  OF  SR.  GERTRUDE  OF  THE  8  AC  RED  HEART   39 

A  message  that  never  yet  failed  me 

With  its  burden  of  wishes  and  prayers, 

But  the  sweet  Angel-sister  that  sped  it. 

Has  passed  from  earth's  pleasures  and  cares. 

Still  her  mem'ry  is  bright  as  the  crimson, 

That  flushes  the  brow  of  the  west, 
And  pure  as  the  pearly  haze  mantling, 

The  Coast  Range's  glorified  breast. 

0  faithful  Friend  1  Daughter  !  and  Sister  ! 
In  the  glow  of  God's  glory  above, 

1  feel,  that  your  hands  are  uplifted, 

For  the  Homes  that  here  shared  your  heart's  love. 

For  the  Mother  and  sisters,  that  treasure 
Your  memory  as  Love's  fairest  flower, 

For  the  souls  to  whom  Jesus. and  Mary, 
Are  the  glory  and  joy  of  each  hour. 

For  the  teachers  and  friends  of  your  childhood, 
Whose  prayers  shall  uprise  with  your  song, 

When  the  Jubilee  bells  of  your  Convent, 
Shall  ring  out  their  glad  anthems  ere  long. 

We  shall  beg  God  whose  graces  and  goodness, 
Their  calm  quarter  century  have  blest, 

To  crown  with  all  joys  His  Heart's  Spouses, 
In  the  city  of  Oaks,  of  the  West. 

S.  A.  R. 
-  Notre  Dame,  San  Jose,  Cal. 


a 


y 


How  strange  is  the  human  heart  !  so  vast  in  its  capacity  for  the 
grand  and  the  beautiful,  yet  ofttimes  so  weak,  so  earthly  in  its 
longings  and  desires. 

This  little  time-piece  of  cmr  existence  strikes  off  the  hours  one  by 
one,  and  though  they  are  fraught  with  numberless  blessings,  we  let 
them  glide  on,  in  our  restless  eagerness  to  attain  a  happiness  just 
beyond  our  grasp.  Life  is  what  we  make  it ;  and  if  we  glance 
around  us,  how  much  cause  for  real  joy  do  we  not  find  in  our  every- 
day-blessings !  Who  has  not  felt  the  influence  of  a  bright  sunny 
morning  ;  of  the  gentle  breeze  which  having  playfully  stolen  the 
fragrance  from  the  flowers,  has  wafted  it  to  us  as  though  it  knew  its 
power  of  gratifying  ? 

Who,  while  viewing  the  grand  panorama  of  nature,  with  its  gor- 
geous tints  and  sombre  shadows,  has  thought  for  one  instant  how 
much  there  is  to  be  thankful  for  in  the  gift  of  sight  ?  And  coming 
to  the  real  living  world  of  hearts  that  surround  us,  who  can  say, 
who  can  count  all  the  blessings  affection  has  bestowed  ?  The  smile 
of  approval,  the  smile  which  encourages,  are  not  these  treasures  of 
the  soul  ?  And  little  acts  of  kindness  coming  just  at  the  moment 
we  feel  the  need  of  sympathy  and  of  love,  do  they  count  for  naught  ? 
Ah  !  no  ;  though  trifling  in  themselves,  they  may  be  the  pivot  upon 
which  our  life's  destiny  turned,  just  as  the  sweet  impress  of  a 
mother's  lips  upon  the  youthful  brow  of  Benjamin  West  made  him 
form  the  resolve  of  putting  upon  canvas  the  noble  conceptions  of 
his  artistic  genius. 


MOST  REV.  P.  W.  RIORDAX 
ARCHBISHOP  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO 


OUR  EVERY  DAY  BLESSINGS 


41 


Gifts  from  the  hand  are  silver  and  gold,  but  the  heart  gives  that 
which  neither  silver  nor  gold  can  buy.  Let  us  not  then  stand  upon 
the  ocean  shore,  straining  our  eyes  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  ship 
that  may  never  reach  port,  but  let  us  manfully,  joyfully  board  the 
skiff  that  lies  anchored  in  the  harbor,  and  though  the  voyage  may 
seem  longer,  we  will  surely  reach  our  destination  in  safety. 

FLORENCE  HYDE. 
Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 


A  SMILE  of  approval  may  be  a* stepping  stone  to  success.  A  look 
of  encouragement  from  those  we  love  may  call  into  being  slumber- 
ing resolutions  and  forgotten  promises  that  will  rise  as  so  many 
barriers  against  our  own  weakness. — K.  K. 


OR  a  epiebiipe  of  Jt. 

IN  THE  MUSIC  ROOM. 

0  picture  in  the  golden  frame, 

Fair  as  the  morning  sky  ! 
Where  is  the  charm  that  round  thee  breathes  ? 

Where  doth  thy  beauty  lie  ? 

'Tis  not  the  beam  of  light, 

3Tis  not  the  lovely  hair, 
'Tis  not  the  cheek  of  softest  white 

That  makes  the  face  so  fair. 

'Tis  not  the  smiling  lips  so  pure 

That  breathe  with  mute  appeal, 
Nor  hands  in  childish  fervor  clasped, 

As  if  in  prayer  to  steal. 

'Tis  not  the  mantle  folded  close 

Around  the  form  of  grace  ; 
'Tis  not  the  colors  soft  and  fair, 

Nor  richly  broider'd  lace. 

No — but  the  charm  is  hidden  here 

In  eyes  of  turquoise  hue, 
Whose  pure  and  soulful  depths  reflect 

The  tint  of  Heaven's  own  blue. 

No  passion  could  disturb  a  soul 

Lit  by  such  flames  divine, 
Where  hope  and  beauty,  love  and  faith, 

In  sweetness  ever  shine. 

EMMA  ROSENTHAL. 

Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 

42 


priesthood 


I  Essay  written  February  27th,  1890  on  the  occasion  of  Rev.  M.  King's  Silver  Jubilee— 25 
years'  pastorate  in  Oakland.] 

• 

The  Priest  1  Before  this  sublime  invention  of  God's  love  for  man, 
the  vaunted  names  of  earthly  grandeur  fade  into  insignificance  ; 
the  brightest  lights  of  man's  contrivance  are  but  darkness  in  the 
Heaven-born  rays  of  so  mighty  a  sun.  To  announce  to  a  world  of 
ransomed  souls  the  mandates  of  the  Creator,  to  minister  the  rites  of 
Holy  Church,  to  offer  to  Heaven  the  sacrifice  of  Calvary — such  are 
the  duties  of  him  to  whose  predecessors  it  was  said,  "  Go,  and  teach 
all  nations  I " 

The  Priest  cares  for  earth,  only,  as  it  holds  the  price  of  a  Savior's 
blood  ;  fame  attracts  him  not,  and  glory  cannot  allure  ;  for  these 
are  the  rewards  of  men  of  the  earth,  earthly.  Heaven  alone  has 
charms  for  God's  annointed. 

Wherever  we  turn,  these  faithful  workers  are  employed  ;  there  is 
no  page  off  history  which  does  not  bear  the  record  of  their  deeds. 
Now,  their  voice  is  heard  from  the  upraised  pulpit  'neath  the  lofty 
arch  of  grand  cathedrals  ;  or.  veiled  round  with  floating  clouds  of 
fragrant  incense,  Christ's  minister  is  offering  before  the  altar  the 
prayers  of  the  worshipers.  In  the  bustle  and  uproar  of  the  mighty 
city,  in  the  crowded  tenement,  where  the  victims  of  poverty  are  dy- 
ing in  squalid  misery ;  in  the  far  distant  village,  where  privation 
waits  upon  the  worker  ;  in  every  circumstance,  the  same  untiring 
guardians  of  the  scattering  flock  are  patiently  sustaining  the  long 
and  weary  watch.  On  the  blood-stained  battle  field,  where  shot  and 
shell  are  menacing  the  lives  of  thousands  ;  where  the  wounded  and 

43 


44  SILVER    Ji: 111  LEE    ME  MO  HIM. 

the  dying  are  strewn  thickest,  and  in  the  fiercest  fury  of  the  conflict, 
the  gentle  words  of  God  and  Heaven,  spoken  by  the  champions  of 
the  Cross,  have  soothed  to  rest  the  struggling  heart  of  many  a  brave 
warrior. 

No  land  is  too  remote  for  this  Divine  commissioner  to  proclaim  the 
Master's  words  ;  from  frozen  polar  regions  to  torrid  Africa  and  wild 
Australia,  the  same  tireless  toilers  pursue  their  way.  Savage  hearts 
are  subdued  and  brought  under  the  influence  of  the  Great  Master 
whom  they  ignored,  and  their  child-like  .faith,  while  it  consoles  the 
heart  of  the  priest,  often  puts  to  blush  the  learned  and  enlightened 
of  our  great  century. 

Such  is  the  royal  Priesthood  !  Such  the  selfless  existence  of  its 
members  ;  yet,  so  unassumingly  and  silently  are  achieved  these  con- 
quests, that  the  busy  world  scarce  pauses  to  notice  the  results,  until, 
one  day,  when  long  years  have  come  and  gone,  all  eyes  are  turned 
in  wonderment  to  the  golden  harvest  that  the  patient  laborer  has 
garnered  in  for  heaven.  Then,  perchance,  even  strange  hearts  must 
needs  join  with  those  who  have  always  been  appreciative,  loving  and 
filial ;  and,  with  one  acclaim,  lay  at  the  pastor's  feet  their  heartfelt 
congratulations. 

MARY  J.  W 

Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 


are\Vell 


A  moment,  ere  the  day  is  done, 
I  pause,  dear  friends,  to  say  adieu, 

To  bid  the  past  a  sad  farewell, 
To  bid  a  welcome  to  the  new. 

What  joy  to  'scape  from  study's  rule, 
And  launch  on  Life's  tempestuous  sea, 

To  fly  to  scenes  where  wonders  dwell, 
And,  like  an  uncaged  bird,  be  free  ! 

Yet,  ah  !  my  heart  why  throbbest  thou, 
With  feelings  both  of  joy  and  woe  ? 

What  means  this  mist  that  clouds  my  eyes  ? 
These  tears  which  now  so  sadly  flow  ! 

There  is  a  sorrow  in  my  joy, 

A  sadness  in  my  ev'ry  smile, 
As  thoughts  of  old  come  stealing  back 

And  whisper,  "  Yet,  a  little  while  ! " 

I  know  the  cloudless  azure  sky, 

Which  hovered  lightly  o'er  my  past, 

Will  soon  be  changed  to  darker  hues, 
Ere  long  the  storms  will  o'er  it  cast  ! 


46  SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

Untried,  I  stand  upon  the  shore, 

I  fain  would  longer  here  abide, 
I  dread  the  ocean's  stormy  wave 

O'er  which  my  fragile  bark  must  glide. 

'Tis'ever  thus — a  few  brief  hours 
Of  happiness  undimmed  by  tears, 

Our  path  with  flowers  now  is  strewn, 
With  prickly  thorns,  in  later  years. 

Since  childhood  my  frail  bark  has  been 

A  fairy  toy,  on  summer's  sea, 
With  scarce  an  adverse  breath  of  wind 

To  trouble  its  tranquillity. 

But  now,  'tis  gone — the  past  has  fled, 
The  future  lies  all  veiled  before  ! 

I  bid  adieu  to  these  old  halls, 
To  scenes  I'll  never  enter  more. 

In  later  years,  when  Time's  stern  hand 
Has  laid  his  traces  on  my  brow, 

I'll  wander  back  on  fancy's  wing, 

To  the  loving  friends  I  am  leaving  now. 

Within  a  few  fast  fleeting  weeks, 
These  dear  old  halls  will  ring  once  more 

With  merry  voices  full  of  mirth, 

With  stranger  forms  unknown  before.- 

4 

In  after  years,  strange  hearts  will  know 
The  love  and  care  which  once  was  mine, 

Then  stranger  brows  will  oft  be  decked 

With  crowns  like  these,  which  round  me  twine. 


FAREWELL  47 

'Tis  sad  to  part  when  through  me  steal 
Sweet  mem'ries  of  each  treasured  spot. 

But  sadder  far,  it  is  to  think 

That  soon  my  name  will  be  forgot  1 

But  though  I  may  forgotten  be 
When  from  these  scenes  I  speed  away, 

Still  in  my  heart  there'll  linger  oft 
Fond  mem'ries  of  this  parting  day. 

And  ere  we  part,  with  faltering  lips, 
I  thank  you  all,  dear  Sister  band, 

And  you,  dear  friends,  with  whom  I've  trod 
The  paths  of  school  life  hand  in  hand. 

Dear  Sisters,  bless  me  with  your  prayers, 
Keep  one  lingering  thought  for  me, 

They'll  waft  sweet  mem'ries  o'er  my  soul, 
Consoling  thoughts  they'll  always  be. 

ADELK  F.  KEYES, 

E.  DE  M., 

Conreal  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal.,  Jane  28,  1872. 


The  fairer  the  beauties  of  earth,  the  more  perishable  are  they. 
Beauty  is  a  flower  of  to-day,  that  to-morrow  lies  withered  and  sere 
upon  the  stalk. 

In  the  early  morning,  just  before  Aurora  draws  the  bolts  of  the 
Eastern  gates,  and  Phoebus  in  all  his  glory  mounts  the  distant  hills, 
in  that  magic  hour  between  darkness  and  daylight,  what  more  beauti- 
ful than  the  crystal  jewels  that  gem  every  leaf  and  bud  ?  Fresh 
from  heaven  they  seem  to  have  fallen,  to  bathe  the  lovely  flowers, 
before  the  sun  has  cleared  the  zenith,  they  will  have  vanished  like 
a  dream. 

The  fairest  buds  that  bloom  to-day  in  the  gardens  of  earth,  will 
have  passed  away  to-morrow.  What  delight  it  is  to  gaze  upon  those 
fragile  beauties  of  the  field  ;  to  breathe  the  sweet  incense  which  they 
burn,  their  whole  life  long,  in  the  temple  of  Nature.  The  hare-bell, 
swinging  its  turquoise  censer  to  and  fro  in  the  wind  ;  the  graceful 
pampas  lifting  its  head  in  confident  superiority;  the  immaculate 
lily,  swaying  its  crested  cup  ;  and  the  little  blue  violets  nestling  be- 
neath their  friendly  emerald  canopies,  whisper  sweet  secrets  to  the 
passing  breeze.  To-morrow,  we  will  find  but  a  few  withered  flowers, 
and  a  sense  of  desolation  will  pervade  the  rural  retreat.  The  ame- 
thyst petals  no  longer  nod  in  the  sunshine  ;  the  hare-bell  droops  as 
though  weighed  down  by  some  new  sorrow,  and  the  lily's  leaves  are 
curled  as  though  in  scorn  ;  the  breath  of  decay  has  blighted  the 
flowers,  and  naught  of  their  beauty  remains.  Ah  !  how  sad  it  is 


REV.  THOMAS  McSWEENEY 
RECTOR  ST.  FRANCIS  DK  SALES,  OAKLAND,  CAL. 


.MORTALITY    AM)    IMMORTALITY  49 

that  mortality  must  thus  limit  our  every  joy  !  Like'  the  spectre  at 
the  feast,  it  ever  stands,  and  with  warning  finger  points,  while  re- 
peating with  the  Psalmist  :  "  And  this  too  will  pass  away." 

I  have  knelt  at  the  twilight  hour,  when  all  was  hushed  in  silent 
peace,  and  peered  far  into  the  purple  distance  where  earth  and  sky 
meet  in  melted  harmony ;  I  have  marveled  at  the  beauties  of  the 
western  sky,  bathed  in  floods  of  mellow  light ;  I  have  adored  the 
Power  that  wrought  these  beauties,  but  ere  I  had  drunk  in  one-half 
their  grandeur,  I  felt  chilled  ;  the  night  mists  were  falling  around 
me,  and  darkness  covered  the  vision  of  loveliness.  Oh  !  why  could 
not  that  glorious  vision  last  forever  ?  Why  could  not  the 
artist  who  blended  and  commingled  those  aerial  tints  confer 
upon  the  picture  the  gift  of  Immortality  ? 

.Man  is  free,  he  is  superior  to  every  other  created  being,  he  is  mas- 
ter of  the  animal  kingdom,  and  all  its  members  are  subservient  to 
his  will ;  and  must  he  too,  the  noblest  work  of  God,  lie  fettered  in 
the  slavery  of  mortality  ? 

Man  too  must  die.  But  for  him  death  is  not  the  final  limit  of 
existence,  death  to  him  is  but  the  threshold  of  eternity.  For  every 
other  creature  death  marks  the  goal  ;  the  race  is  run  ;  but  man  in 
this  very  point  proclaims  his  superiority.  The  goal  for  him  is  also 
reached,  but  the  victor,  man,  is  crowned  with  immortal  laurels,  and 
the  prize  is  eternal  bliss. 

The  reign  of  death  is  not  eternal.  Immortality  receives  at  last  the 
sceptre  and  the  crown,  and  reanimates  the  flowers  felled  by  Death. 
The  dewdrops  that  nestled  this  morning  in  the  heart  of  the  violets, 
gleamed  in  tints  of  rose  and  purple  from  the  cortege  of  Phcebus,  as 
he  sank  to  rest  in  the  distant  ocean,  and  to-morrow  they  may  begem 
some  fairer  blossom  in  another  clime.  They  have  not  died  ;  they 
have  only  passed  from  earth  to  heaven  to  be  purified,  and  sparkle 
again  as  beautiful  as  yesterday. 

And  the  flowers?  Have  they  passed  away  forever?  Will  not  the 
lily  raise  again  its  graceful  head,  and  the  violets  nod  a  welcome  to 
the  passer-by?  Aye,  they  only  sleep,  and  will  bloom  again  fairer 


50  SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

than  to-day.  And  man?  He  lies  down  upon  the  bier  to  rise  amid 
angels  and  delight.  The  happiest  hours  of  life  are  shadowed  by  the 
presence  of  Mortality,  and  the  very  thought,  that  transient  are  the 
joys  that  to-day  delight  the  heart,  is  already  a  drop  of  bitter  in  the 
cup  of  sweet.  The  thought  of  Mortality  is  a  source  of  annoyance 
to  the  merry,  but  it  is  a  consolation  to  the  sad.  They  know  that 
death  brings  alleviation  to  every  sorrow,  and  they  welcome  the  grim 
guest.  Welcome  or  not,  however,  he  steals  as  silently  as  the  dark- 
ness when  "  the  day  is  done,"  and  robs  the  dearest  gems  from  the 
casket  of  love. 

The  soul  of  the  great  Socrates  proved  its  nobility  when  it  whis- 
pered to  him  that  Death  would  only  set  it  free.  What  material 
instincts  inspired  those  philosophers  who  believed  that  the  breath 
of  God  which  He  had  infused  into  the  clay,  was  nothing  higher  than 
the  substantial  form,  and  with  it  would  return  to  dust  ! 

Immortality  is  the  great  incentive  to  virtue.  If  we  thought  that 
Death  is  the  terminus  of  life,  how  hard  it  would  be  for  us  to  conquer 
evil  and  practice  virtue.  But  with  a  soul,  God  gave  us  the  instinct- 
ive longing  after  Him,  and  the  knowledge  that  He  would  claim  His 
own  when  our  pilgrimage  is  over.  Mortality  should  then  be  a  cause 
of  gratitude  to  us — gratitude  that  God  has  not  placed  us  here  on 
earth  to  toil  and  sorrow  unrecompensed  forever  ;  but  has  promised 
to  share  with  us  for  all  Eternity  His  Heavenly  Kingdom,  where  tears 
are  strangers,  and  Peace  and  Love  are  the  wardens  of  the  gates. 

LUCILE  EDWARDS. 
Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 


How  many  happy  hours  have  I  spent  at  my  window,  hours  of 
rest  in  my  joy,  hours  of  peace  and  calm  in  my  sorrow.  Well  may  I 
love  my  window  ;  it  has  been  a  friend  indeed  to  me.  Oft  in  my 
bright,  happy  days  of  gladness,  when  life's  waves  of  pleasure  were 
surging  all  about  me,  have  I  sat  by  it,  because  I  was  weary  of  my 
fleeting  joys,  and  longed  for  a  little  peace.  Then  my  window  pre- 
sented to  me  earth's  sights  and  sounds  to  soothe  my  troubled  soul, 
and  when  affliction  and  woe  pressed  heavily  upon  my  heart  and 
earth's  brightness  seemed  passing  far;  far,  from  me,  then  again,  like 
a  sweet  consoler,  it  led  my  spirit,  from  the  inward  clouds  of  bitter- 
ness that  wrapped  it  in  their  sombre  folds,  out  into  the  sunlight  and 
beauty  that  flooded  earth  and  sky. 

My  window  is  the  frame  of  those  glorious  pictures  that  are  placed 
before  my  admiring  eyes,  and  though  the  background  to  that  paint- 
ing remains  the  same,  yet  ever  and  anon,  as  the  seasons  come  and  go 
and  day  glides  into  night,  Nature  changes  the  color  of  the  sky,  paints 
the  earth  a  different  hue,  places  the  golden  ears  of  corn  in  the  fields 
or  blots  these  out,  and  strips  the  leaves  from  the  trees  showing  me 
earth  in  all  her  wintry  beauty. 

Far  off  in  the  distance,  the  dark  hills  stand,  and  up  their  sides 
fair  mansions  rise,  white  and  pure  against  the  sky,  each  one  just  a 
little  way  nearer  the  summit.  As  the  sun  touches  each  one  of  these 
buildings,  their  whiteness  is  changed  into  a  soft  glimmering  light, 
and  as  the  windows  glisten  and  flush  beneath  the  touch  of  that 
royal  king's  hand,  it  seems  as  though  the  angels  were  carrying  the 
bright  records  of  men's  good  deeds  unto  the  bosom  of  their  God. 


52  HILVKR    Jl'RILEE    MEMORIAL 

There  is  one  hill  that  lies  in  a  line  with  my  window.  Upon  its 
side  no  stately  mansions  of  stone  or  marble  are  erected,  for  there 
alone,  lie  those  noble  deserted  temples  of  the  breath  of  God,  the 
silent,  peaceful  dead.  I  cannot  look  from  my  window,  but  I  see 
that  resting  place,  beautiful  reminder  to  me,  of  where  1  some  day 
shall  lie  when  life's  restless  waves  have  surged  from  my  feet  away 
and  have  cast  my  soul  from  the  sea-bed  of  Time  unto  the  shores  of 
Eternity.  The  cross  that  surmounts  that  hill,  stands  solitary  and 
grand,  alone  in  its  beauty,  above  all  other  points  of  the  scene  seem- 
ing to  touch  the  fair  skies  above,  thus  again  uniting  earth  and 
heaven,  as  it  did  on  that  bitter  day  on  Calvary's  heights. 

As  I  look  through  my  window,  my  beautiful  kaleidoscope,  the 
fields  lie  at  my  feet  with  a  streamlet  in  their  lap,  hiding  itself  in 
their  embrace,  like  a  beautiful  boy  in  his  mother's  arms.  The 
city  stands  further  off ;  the  sound  of  its  strife  and  noise  comes  to 
me  mingled  with  the  tender  babbling  of  the  brook,  subdued  into  a 
sweet,  low,  continuous  murmur,  and  I  think  that  if  those  sounds 
are  sweetened  to  me  at  such  a  short  distance  from  them,  when 
earth's  noise  and  clamor,  its  laughter  and  tears  reach  Heaven's  gate, 
they  must  be  softened  into  the  faintest,  gentlest  refrain,  pleasing 
even  to  angels'  ears. 

I  have  sat  at  my  window  at  morn,  when  the  grasses  were 
still  wet  with  the  drops  of  water  that  Nature  has  spilt  in  mixing 
her  colors  over  night  and  myriads  of  birds  warbled  and  trilled  the 
sweet  tones  of  their  melody.  The  fair  stream  went  smiling  on  its 
way  ;  I  have  gazed  at  my  picture,  watching  Nature  paint  the  sky  a 
deeper  blue,  place  a  golden  sun  in  the  heavens,  and  then  over  all 
throw  a  veil  of  glorious  sunshine,  thus  ever  changing  its  color- 
ing unto  sunny  noon  and  again  unto  golden  eve,  when  all  the  glory 
of  earth  and  sky  seems  to  blend,  in  order  to  beautify  the  last 
moments  of  dying  day.  These  moments  are  ever  the  loveliest  por- 
tions of  day's  brief  life.  I  remember  one  sunset  of  exquisite  beauty. 

It  was   summer  and  a  soft  haze  filled  the  air  like  the  incense 


MY    W1MX>W  53 

that  we  scatter  round  our  beloved  dead  ;  a  hush  was  on  earth  and  all 
her  creatures,  for  day  was  sinking,  passing  from  time  on  th'e  wings 
of  night  into  the  arms  of  eternity.  The  sun  was  resting  on  the 
dark  hills  like  a  king  on  his  couch,  sending  his  hand  maidens,  the 
glorious  shafts  of  color  and  splendor,  to  bid  farewell  to  the.  sur- 
rounding hills,  and  to  kiss  the  valley  and  the  stream  good-night, 
while  he,  in  all  his  royal  beauty  waited  their  return.  Then  the 
golden  disk  was  seen  sinking,  sinking,  until  only  a  slender  crescent 
remained,  and  that  too  vanished,  but  the  sunset  splendor  remained. 

The  heavens  were  tinged  with  a  soft,  mellow,  purple  and  golden 
light,  while  here  and  there  a  faint  pink  flush  was  on  the  sky.  But 
over  the  spot  where  the  cross  marked  the  resting-place  of  those  who 
sleep  forevermore,  the  sky  was  a  deep,  beautiful  red  its  luminous 
edges  fringed  with  gold,  a  crown  as  it  were  suspended  there,  a 
mark  of  God's  benediction.  Then  the  beauty  slowly  faded,  and 
night  crept  on  with  stealthy  step,  bearing  in  the  dark  folds  of  his 
mantle,  the  beautiful  moon,  whose  loveliness  he  would  reveal  only 
when  his  sombre  tapestry  had  been  pinned  securely  down  on  earth. 
Then  when  he  had  pushed  back  his  dark  garment,  the  glorious  moon, 
that  fair  sister  of  the  sun,  stepped  forth  and  gazed  with  loving  ten- 
derness on  the  pale  face  of  queenly  earth.  The  lights  of  the  city 
shone  out  one  by  one,  like  loops  of  stars  let  down  from  heaven  to 
lead  our  thoughts,  whence  they  came.  So  my  window  teaches  me 
each  day  a  new  lesson  of  love  and  thanksgiving  to  Him,  who  has 
made  all  the  beauty  that  floods  the  universe. 

But  too  soon  was  my  window  darkened.  They  erected  a  building 
that  shut  out  from  me  one  by  one,  each  loved  object  of  my  beautiful 
picture  and  with  every  blow  of  the  workman's  hammer,  it  seemed 
as  if  my  heart-strings  were  being  wrenched  and  torn,  and  my  spirit 
crushed  to  earth,  for  the  scenes  that  I  love  can  never  more  be  seen 
framed  by  the  window  that  has  been  more  than  a  friend  to  me  ; 
those  paintings  shall  henceforth  exist  only  in  the  gallery  of  my 
memory  ;  and  now  all  that  is  left  to  my  yearning  gaze,  is  the  sky 
above,  and  the  cross  that  crowns  the  homes  of  the  peaceful  dead. 


54  SILVER    .ll-ltlLKK    MEMORIAL 

Thus  it  is  in  life.  We  stand  in  youth's  bright  morning,  at  the 
window  of  hope,  and  gaze  on  a  world  all  fair  to  our  young  eyes  and 
all  that  we  see  is  beautiful,  because  our  hearts  are  ready  and  willing 
to  receive  the  beauty.  Earth  and  sea  and  sky  are  flooded  with 
splendor,  the  future  wears  a  halo  of  glorious  color  on  its  brow,  and 
we  are  too  engaged  in  looking  at  earth  to  raise  our  souls  to  the 
heaven  that  lies  beyond. 

But  soon  the  walls  of  sorrow  and  affliction,  of  age  and  blighted 
hopes,  rise  up  before  us  and  shut  out  earth's  sights  and  sounds  from 
our  weary  hearts,  and  when  the  future,  which  looked  so  bright 
becomes  the  present,  its  charm  is  gone  and  "  like  Dead  Sea  fruit  it 
turns  to  ashes  at  our  touch."  As  the  wall  rises  higher  and  higher 
around  our  breaking  hearts,  nothing  is  left  us  to  look  up  to,  save 
the  cross  and  heaven — meet  emblems  of  our  burden  in  life  and  our 
reward  that  goes  beyond  life  even  unto  eternity. 

CHRISTINE  O'NEILL. 
Convent  of  the  Holy  Names,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 


God  only  knows  the  stormy  tumult  of  every  life.  His  love  it  is 
that  calms  the  agitations  of  the  human  heart  ;  His  thought  that  spirit- 
ualizes the  peace  and  joys  of  earth.  He  alone  knows  every  mighty 
conquest,  every  ignoble  thought  spurned,  every  temptation  bravely 
overcome,  and  it  is  He  who  makes  Heaven  the  eternal  abode  of  His 
loved  ones,  of  those  who  have  trod  the  paths  of  the  lowly,  who  have 
sought  the  shelter  of  His  love  in  their  earthly  pilgrimage. — Kate 
Keaney. 


h  hf?e    ibp'me  °f  QUP  fcadv  °f 


-JK- 

The  slanting  shadows  slowly  creep 
Around  this  world  of  light  and  love, 
They  weave  a  carpet  whereon  sleep 
The  stars  of  evening's  sunset  hours. 
The  trembling  rose  leaves  climb  above 
A  lattice  work  of  beauty  rare, 
Their  fragile  blossoms  lightly  sway 
And  shed  sweet  perfumes  on  the  air. 

The  angel-lilies,  fair  and  sweet, 

A  faithful  vigil  fondly  keep, 

As  swinging  to  and  fro  they  meet 

And  mix  their  fragrant  incensed  breath, 

With  breath  of  hidden  violet. 

The  cool  and  palmy  ferns  uplift 

Their  tufted  fronds  of  veined  leaves 

And  fill,  like  sunshine,  every  rift. 

Amidst  these  shades  and  balmy  airs, 
A  refuge  dear,  well-loved  by  all, 
Cross-crowned  Our  Lady's  Shrine,  appears. 
0  mystic  hour,  of  twilight  dim, 

55 


66  SILVER    JUKI  LEE 


An  added  charm  thou  e'er  dost  bring. 
To-night  thou  bidst  me  simply  weave 
A  memory  kept  in  many  a  heart, 
A  memory  sad  that  does  not  grieve. 

When  first  the  rays  of  morning  shine 
And  wake  alike  the  flower  and  bird, 
The  ever  pleasant  task  is  mine, 
To  note  the  willing  foot-step  turned, 
By  groups  of  dancing  children  fair, 
To  pathway  leading  to  this  Shrine  ; 
The  blue  sky  bending  over  all, 
A  benediction  seems  to  fall. 

At  noon,  the  sultry  rays  of  sun, 
Well  hid  by  leafy  arch  and  bower, 
Behold  the  quiet  persuasive  nun, 
With  humble  mien  and  downcast  eye, 
Approach  the  cherished  altar  throne  ; 
Of  loved  duty  'tis  a  part 
To  lay  each  prayer  at  Mary's  feet  — 
Her  arms  encircle  Jesus'  heart. 

White-veiled,  like  group  of  angels  clad, 
The  novice  band  serene  doth  stand  ; 
Their  pure  young  souls  forever  glad, 
Shine  through  each  face  with  heavenly  glow 
No  burdens  on  their  hearts  do  lie, 
For,  casting  all  their  cares  on  Him, 
Who  counts  the  bird  on  every  limb  — 
Their  souls  in  calm  content  e'er  live. 


GROTTO  OF  OUR  I,AJ)Y  OF  LOURDES  SHRINE  OF  OUR  LADY  OF  SORROWS 

INTERIOR  OF  PIETA  ST.  JOSEPH'S  SHRINE 


AT    THE    SllRIXE    OF    OUR    LADY    OF    SORROWS  57 

And,  thus  succeeding,  one  by  one, 
Come  spirits  joyous,  spirits  glad  ; 
Some,  souls  devout,  at  set  of  sun, 
To  lay  their  prayerful  wishes  down  ; 
And  some,  to  ask  the  precious  boon 
That  innocence  may  ever  know, 
The  soul  that  now  is  stainless  pure, 
Rivaling  in  its  white  the  snow. 

O,  Mother  dear,  Thy  sorrow  deep, 

Is  marked  by  eyes  that  ever  seek 

To  fathom  mysteries  that  sleep 

Beneath  the  closed  lids  of  Him, 

Who  loved  the  world  too  well,  too  well  ; 

To-night,  I  ask  a  gift  of  Thee, 

To  live,  so  filled  with  pain,  for  love 

Of  thee,  that  all  my  life  may  be 

A  ministry  to  thy  dear  Son. 

AGATHA  SCRIMZEOUR. 
Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cat. 


NATURE'S  palette  is  the   earth  ;    her  brush,  God's  love  of  the 
beautiful. — K.  K. 


Sot  for3  M\y<?elf  Jllorae 

*0     •  oJ   )  <J£// 


'•  Not  for  myself  alone  "- 

"  O  man,  forget  not  thou,  earth's  honored  priest, 

"  In  earth's  great  chorus  to  sustain  thy  part." 

Flower  and  beast  and  all  created  things  proclaim  the  lesson, — 
the  noblest  lesson  that  man  can  learn — to  live  not  alone  for  one's 
self,  but  for  the  world — for  the  elevation  of  the  human  race — for 
the  glory  of  the  Creator. 

Not  for  itself  did  God  create  the  brook,  sparkling  and  laughing, 
now  in  the  sunshine,  now  in  the  shadow.  It  must  bring  fertility  to 
the  land,  to  help  the  pretty  flowers  and  waving  trees  to  beautify 
the  earth  ;  and  the  flowers,  in  turn,  must  shed  their  perfume  on 
the  air,  and  the  trees  must  spread  their  branches  and  give  shelter 
from  the  noon-day  sun  and  homes  to  the  little  songsters  that  dwell 
within  their  leafy  homes. 

Not  for  itself  does  the  ever  restless  ocean  roll  and  break  upon 
the  eternal  shore: — deep,  dark,  unfathomable.  It  frowns  upon  the 
pigmy  man  who  has  dared  to  find  a  path  across  its  trackless  main  ; 
nay,  even  old  ocean  holds  within  its  unyielding  palm  the  treasures 
of  the  deep,  and  the  treasures  of  the  sky,  and  these  latter  he 
yields  to  the  ardent  sun  whose  burning  kiss  upon  his  brow  pleads 
for  man,  whom  all  creation  honors. 

O  man  1  thine  is  the  noblest  part  of  all!  Thou  art  the  king 
and  ruler  of  the  earth — "  its  tongue,  its  sword,  its  life,  its  pulse,  its 
heart " — forget  not  that  thou  must  sustain  thy  part. 

0  wonderful  race  that  since  the  day  when  Adam,  fresh  and 
beautiful,  a  divine  emanation  from  the  hand  of  God,  gave  to  each 

58 


NOT  FOR  MYSELF  ALOtfE  59 

created  thing  its  name  and  part — since  he  stood,  lord  of  all,  within 
the  Paradise  of  Eden — since  he  forfeited  his  birthright  and  passed 
out  beneath  the  flaming  sword  of  the  wrathful  angel,  even  to  this 
day,  when  the  world  is  transformed  by  his  genius  and  all  nations, 
are  as  one — still  is  he  king — still  the  ruler,  glorious,  compound, 
Godlike,  and  yet  so  human.  So  human  that  often  he  forgets  his 
distant  Home — so  human  th'at  error  sometimes  smothers  all  remem- 
brance of  it,  even  all  belief.  Absorbed  with  the  gain  and  riches  of 
the  world,  life  slips  away,  and  heaven,  God,  and  all  his  teachings 
are  ignored,  forgotten!  And  sweetest,  truest  of  those  teachings  is 
this  :  "  Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God,  and  thy  neighbor  as 
thyself."  These  words  embody  the  whole  sublime  doctrine  of  self- 
sacrifice. 

Give,  that  another's  life  may  be  sweeter  ;  work,  that  someone 
else  may  be  happier  ;  smile,  and  crush  thy  sorrow,  that  others  may 
not  be  saddened  at  thy  pain — Oh  !  they  are  countless,  these  many 
ways  of  self-forgetfulness  ;  as  countless,  as  the  opportunities  to 
practice  them  are  frequent.  And  difficult  as  they  may  seem,  and 
often  are,  what  were  life  without  them  ?  It  is  the  constant  un- 
selfish sacrifices  that  are  demanded  of  the  mother  and  are  so  will- 
ingly given,  that  shed  their  halo  round  her  name  in  after  life,  pre- 
vent so  much  of  evil,  achieve  so  much  of  good.  It  is  only  self-for- 
getfulness that  makes  home-life  sweet  and  happy.  It  is  only  that 
which  makes  a  character  great,  a  hero  famous.  And  love  itself 
were  not  love,  did  not  the  heart  prompt  self-forgetfulness  and  devo- 
tion to  something  ideal,  and  revel  in  the  very  losing  of  itself.  And 
the  greater,  the  higher  the  object,  the  nobler  and  more  heroic  the 
sacrifice  must  be,  until  life  itself  is  given  and  man  can  give  no 
more — ag  life  and  love  are  given  daily  to  God  in  the  cloister  ;  as 
they  were  given  in  ages  past  at  the  stake  or  by  the  sword,  or  in 
whatever  way  and  at  whatever  time  Love  demanded  the  sacrifice. 

NELLIE  COUGHLIN. 

Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 


60  SILVER  JUBILEE  MEMORIAL 

"  Dearest  Lord,  make  us  remember,  when  the  world  seems  cold 
and  dreary,  and  we  know  not  where  to  turn  for  comfort,  that  there 
is  always  one  spot  bright  and  cheerful — the  Sanctuary." 

FR.  AUGUSTINE 


Jesus  dear,  make  us  remember, 

When  through  life  "we  weep  and  moan, 

We've  one  Treasure,  ours  forever, 
One  dear  Heart  that's  all  our  own. 

When  the  world  seems  cold  and  dreary, 
When  we  see  friends  turn  away, 

And  the  dear  ones  who  were  with  us 
We  no  longer  have  to-day, 

Make  us  think  of  Thee,  oh  Jesus, 
From  thy  glad  bright  home  above, 

Ready  to  send  strength  and  courage, 
Anxious  to  give  love  for  love. 

Grant  us  when  the  battle  wages, 
Fiercer  and  more  fierce  through  life 

Grant  us  Lord,  sweet  resignation, 
Teach  us  patience  in  the  strife. 

Patience,  through  the  hard,  hard  struggle, 
Patience  till  the  crown  is  won  ; 

Teach  us  Lord  our  daily  lesson, 
"  Not  my  will,  but  Thine  be  done." 

LAURA  J.  BRKNHAM. 
Convent  of  the  Holy  Naint'x,  Sim  h\-nnci$cot  Cal. 


Is  it  the  lark's  sweet  hymn 
That  rings  out  full  and  clear, 

Growing  sweeter  still  and  sweeter, 
As  to  heaven  he  draweth  near? 

Is  it  the  nightingale's  lone  thrill, 
That  cleaves  the  cooling  air, 

And  tells  of  evening's  darkened  shades 
And  God's  protecting  care? 

Is  it  the  gorgeous  rose, 

With  beauty  rich  and  rare, 

Shedding  forth  its  sweet  perfume, 
From  a  heart  divinely  fair? 

Is  it  the  lily  so  pure, 

Of  which  our  Blessed  Jesus  said, 
They  toil  not  and  they  spin  not, 

They  claim  no  glowing  red, 

But  theirs  is  so  pure  a  beauty, 

Such  loveliness  portrayed, 
That  e'en  Solomon  in  his  glory 

Was  not  like  these  arrayed. 
ci 


62  SILVER  JUBILEE  MEMORIAL 

Is  it  the  dark-eyed  pansy, 

That  greets  us  with  saucy  nod, 

Or  the  haughty  sunflower  following 
The  chariot  of  her  god? 

Is  it  the  magnolia  waving 
Her  snowy  chalice  on  high 

That  tells  in  fragrant  whispers 
Of  joyful  summer  nigh? 

Yes,  all  these  things  tell  us 
That  the  summer  now  is  here. 

But  other  things  there  are  that  render 
That  summer  doubly  dear, 

Hearken  !  from  over  the  meadow, 

Comes  the  murmuring  hum  of  the  bee, 

As  he  busily  gathers  his  honey 
From  the  clover-scented  lea. 

And  list  to  the  drone  of  the  beetle 
And  the  crickets'  chirp  sing-song, 

And  the  weird  tale  that  Katy-did  tells 
In  a  voice  so  clear  and  strong, 

And  see  the  lowly  grasses 

That  cover  hill  and  dale, 
Wrapping  the  bare  brown  meadows 

In  a  beauteous  emerald  veil. 

And  see  the  soft  green  leaflets, 
That  cover  our  stately  trees, 

Think  you,  is  there  no  beauty 
In  humble  things  like  these? 


WHAT  MAKES   THE  SUMMER?  03 

They  tend  to  make  the  season 

So  fraught  with  joyous  hours, 
The  cricket's  song  and  the  lowly  grass, 

As  well  as  birds  and  flowers. 

Let  us  then  learn  the  lesson 

Which  these  humble  things  have  given, 

That  e'en  little  things  are  counted, 
In  the  registers  of  Heaven. 

One  little  deed  of  kindness 

May  withdraw  a  poisoned  dart; 
One  word  of  tender  sympathy 

May  bind  a  broken  heart. 

Then  let  us  cherish  these  trifles 

That  we  meet  in  daily  life, 
And  strive  to  smooth  the  pathway 

Of  our  brothers  in  the  strife. 

For  we  are  heirs  to  one  great  kingdom, 

Heirs  of  the  self -same  God. 
Oh!  let  us  follow  the  lowly  path, 

The  path  that  Jesus  trod. 

MAMIE  MCGANNEY. 
Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 


It  was  a  bleak  day  in  November.  The  chilling  winds  of  Autumn 
sighed  about  the  bare  and  leafless  trees,  and  swept  over  the  withered 
fields.  Here  and  there  a  few  yellow  leaves  might  have  been  found 
adhering  to  the  swaying  branches,  but  the  ruthless  blast  tore  them 
from  their  shelter  and  whirled  them  out  upon  the  frosty  air. 

In  the  desolate  fields  a  rose-bush  cowered  in  fear  and  trembling 
before  the  wind — once  so  beautiful,  now  bare  and  dismantled. 

u  Ah  I"  it  sighed,  "  why  did  they  take  me  from  my  home  under 
the  sunny  skies  where  the  birds  carolled  forth  their  melodies  among 
my  leaves,  where  the  butterflies  flitted  to  and  fro  around  me,  where 
cold  and  mist  were  things  unknown  !  Why  did  they  place  me  here 
in  this  dreary  desert  to  lose  my  beauty,  and  be  destroyed  by  the 
cruel  blasts  of  a  frigid  land  ! '" 

And  the  winds  moaned  sadly  about  and  tore  the  few  remaining 
leaves  from  the  defenceless  tree. 

The  snows  of  winter  came,  and  the  rose-bush  shrank  from  the 
mocking  flakes,  that  seemed  to  dance  in  glee  about  its  withered 
limbs.  The  fierce  winds  roared  and  shrieked  about  it,  and  snapped 
its  few  remaining  branches  off  and  flung  them  to  the  earth  ;  and 
the  rose-bush  slowly  drooped  beneath  the  many  miseries  which  it 
bore. 

God  saw  and  pitied  its  feebleness  ;  one  day,  when  its  life  was 
almost  gone,  a  ray  of  sunshine,  like  a  heaven-sent  messenger,  touched 
it  and  melted  the  pitiless  snows  ;  the  merciless  winds  -died  down  ; 
the  gentle  zephyrs  blew  softly  o'er  the  branches  ;  the  warm  rains 
fell  upon  it ;  one  by  one,  the  leaves  again  peeped  out,  and  the  birds 
came  fluttering  to  the  welcome  shade. 

The  rose-bush,  all  its  beauty  restored,  grew  and  blossomed  in  the 
sunshine  of  God's  love. 

NELLIE  COUGHLIN. 

04 


appii^ess 


WERE  WE  BORN  To  BE  HAPPY  ? 

It  is  an  undeniable  fact  that  in  human  nature  there  is  a  deep- 
rooted  and  insatiable  longing  for  happiness,  and  it  is  quite  as  unde- 
niable that  this  craving  would  never  have  been  placed  in  the  human 
heart  to  be  left  forever  unsatisfied. 

Well  nigh  six  thousand  years  have  passed  over  the  world  since 
the  day  that  witnessed  its  creation  ;  never  once  in  all  that  lapse  of 
time  has  man  lived  and  striven  for  other  ends  than  happiness. 
Naught  else  could  satisfy  his  craving,  naught  fill  the  aching  void 
within  his  bosom.  He  felt  that  God  had  made  him  for  a  life  of  bliss  ; 
he  realized  that  sin  had  frustrated  the  design  ;  and  yet,  even  the 
dread  sentence  of  suffering  and  toil  that  drove  him  from  his  Eden 
home  could  not  repress  the  longing  of  his  heart,  nor  daunt  his 
efforts  to  attain  the  end.  Surely  it  must  have  been  a  seed  of  God's 
sowing  that  could  withstand  that  blighting  sentence  and  sprout  to 
life  in  an  outcast's  barren  heart.  Thus  within  each  man's  soul  is 
a  source  of  happiness.  With  this  store  of  sunshine  within  us,  and  so 
much  that  is  good  and  beautiful  around  us  to  elicit  its  cheering  rays, 
can  we  doubt  that  we  were  destined  to  live  in  its  presence  ? 


Is  TRUE  HAPPINESS  LOST  To  EARTH? 

Man  was  born  free  ;  he  might  or  might  not  accept  the  law  of 
his  Creator  ;  Eden  was  the  place  of  his  probation — beautiful  as  God 
chose  to  make  it  for  the  monarch  who  came  to  preside  there.  This 

65 


66  SILVER  JUBILEE  MEMORIAL 

same  monarch  willed  to  deface  the  beauty  thereof  by  a  rebellious  act ; 
then  should  we  be  surprised  if  the  darkness  of  Dante's  "  Inferno  " 
enshrouded  it  in  a  gloom  irremediable?  But  God  is  a  father,  and  a 
forgiving  one  like  all  fathers  ;  He  could  leave  his  disobedient 
child  to  work  out  his  years  of  probation  under  a  cloud  as  dark  as 
that  which  hung  over  the  cross,  when  in  despairing  accents  the 
Crucified  called  out  to  His  Father,  "  My  God?  my  God,  why  hast 
thou  forsaken  me  ?"  But  His  heart  is  so  tender  that  when  His 
justice  urges  Him  to  repel,  His  mercy  forces  Him  to  take  the  same 
lawless  creature  to  His  heart  of  hearts.  Consequently,  He  would 
not  banish  all  happiness  from  this  life  ;  He  has  left  glimpses  of  it 
in  everything  that  surrounds  us.  It  shines  out  in  nature,  in  religion, 
in  the  domestic  and  social  relations,  upholding  us  and  shortening 
the  hours  of  our  exile. 

Around  the  hearthstone  man  may  mingle  with  the  loved  ones 
of  home  ;  there  also,  the  sweet  companionship  of  friends  has  power 
to  lull  his  spirit  to  repose  ;  even  when  no  one  is  near  to  share  with 
him  an  hour  of  pleasure,  his  mind  can  revel  in  a  bliss  his  very  own, 
and  in  the  exercise  of  his  intellect  comes  another  solace  for  his 
loneliness. 

But  there  is  still  another  and  a  greater  happiness  awaiting  him, 
to  which  all  else  is  naught.  'Tis  the  restful  happiness  of  a  soul  at 
peace,  of  a  duty  well  performed.  When  in  his  heart  this  conscious- 
ness is  present,  all  the  burden  of  earth's  anguish  disappears,  for, 
in  his  inmost  soul  reigns  a  happiness  supreme.  All  these  pleasures 
brighten  his  darkest  moments  and  encourage  him  to  persevere  until 
the  day  when  he  will  be  greeted  with  the  words  :  "  Well  done,  thou 
good  and  faithful  servant." 

\!/ 
/IN 

WHAT  Is  TRUE  HAPPINESS  ? 

As  we  stand  at  the  portal  of  life's  realities,  we  needs  must  pause 
one  moment  on  the  threshold  of  the  future  and  choose  among  its 
offerings  that  which  will  make  our  life  most  happy.  Some  of  those 


HAPPINESS  67 

who  have  gone  before  us  have  chosen  wealth,  some,  fame,  some,  pleas- 
ure and  gay  hours  of  careless  mirth  ;  who  can  say  that  their  expecta- 
tions have  been  fulfilled  ?  The  history  of  the  world  proves  the 
opposite. 

Our  soul  was  never  made  for  earth;  it  can  not  rest  in  this  stifling 
atmosphere  :  earth's  gifts  and  pleasures  are  but  means  that  aid  to 
its  eternal  end.  Whatever  raises  up  the  soul  to  heaven,  whatever 
makes  it  more  beloved  by  God,  will  be  means  of  happiness  here 
below,  for  God  is  ever  willing  to  bless  His  faithful  ones  and  give 
them  a  foretaste  of  the  joy  that  is  waiting  for  them  beyond.  We 
must  ever  do  the  Master's  will  if  we  wish  to  live  in  the  sunshine  of 
happiness  ;  only  the  dark  shadows  of  sin  and  wasted  hours  can 
make  all  around  us  black  and  foreboding  and  change  the  face  of 
beauty  into  one  of  misery  and  despair. 

Yet  how  soon  our  cherished  plans  are  thwarted,  how  soon  our 
hopes  are  crushed  by  misfortune  or  death  !  Not  so,  when  we  are 
striving  for  a  heavenly  end.  Misfortune  cannot  dim  our  happiness  ; 
each  new  trial,  in  raising  us  nearerheaven  brings  us  also  nearer  to 
its  joys  ;  every  sorrow,  howsoever  bitter,  has  its  balm  ;  every  cross, 
howsoever  heavy,  has  its  crown  of  light.  Death,  too,  is  but  the  portal 
of  glory,  and  not  the  end  of  all  earth's  pleasure.  We  need  not  fear 
its  chill  embrace,  for  soon  our  Father's  loving  smile  will  welcome 
us  home  forever,  and  we  will  know  in  its  perfection  the  happiness  of 
which  we  have  had  but  a  foretaste  here  upon  earth. 

* 

DOES  TRUE  HAPPINESS  EXIST  ? 

Let  me  answer  this  by  another  question  :  Can  an  exile  ever  be 
truly  happy  while  he  remains  far  from  his  native  land  ?  Does  the 
little  songster  of  the  forest  trill  his  merry  notes  when  imprisoned  in 
a  cage  ?  Man's  life  on  earth  is  an  exile's  lot ;  he  is  the  wayworn 
stranger  in  a  foreign  land.  Even  the  wayside  inn  which  he  calls  a 
home,  gives  shelter  only  for  the  night  of  life  ;  when  morning  dawns 


68  SILVER  JUBILEE  MEMORIAL 

he  must  hasten  onward  to  the  great  end  of  his  journey.  The  loved 
companions  of  his  wanderings  ofttimes  leave  his  side  and,  hurrying 
onward  into  the  rest  from  toil,  reach  the  golden  portals  of  home 
long  before  him. 

We  are  ever  longing  for  our  native  land  ;  and,  when  a  ray  of 
happiness  falls  across  our  path,  it  is  but  a  reminder  of  the  home 
towards  which  we  are  journeying,  for  no  earthly  joy  can  satisfy  the 
cravings  of  our  hearts. 

The  very  nature  of  earthly  happiness  is  a  deathblow  to  the  pos- 
sibility of  its  completeness,  for,  unless  moderated  it  tends  rather  to 
'oppress.  Again,  what  man  is  there  who,  in  his  happiest  hours,  has 
not  felt  an  indescribable  dread  of  the  loss  thereof,  a  presentiment  that 
even  while  he  drinks,  the  cup  will  be  dashed  from  his  eager  lips  ? 
Yes,  on  every  page  of  life's  history  is  written  with  tears  of  sorrow 
the  sad  tale  of  disappointed  happiness.  On  the  very  first  page,  we 
find  the  dead  leaves  of  Eden's  fairest  flowers. 

Life  is  one  continual  awakening  from  momentary  bliss  to  real 
sorrow ;  many  a  face  wears  a  happy  look  while  deep  down  in  the  heart 
is  a  grave,  where  lies  some  cherished  hope,  or  some  bright  dream  long 
since  laid  away.  All  our  joys  walk  in  sorrow's  shadow  ;  tears  and 
laughter  follow  close  upon  each  other.  "  0  man,  thou  pendulum 
'twixt  a  smile  and  a  tear  ! '' 

But  as  though  to  urge  us  on  and  to  encourage  us  on  the  long  weary 
path,  it  seems  for  a  moment  as  though  the  Eternal  Gates  stood  ajar 
and  we  catch  a  glimmer  of  the  glory  that  falls  to  us  from  that  radiant 
Home.  We  then  experience  a  peace  and  happiness  that  our  weak 
human  nature  must  call  perfect  ;  although  its  gold  is  mingled, 
alas  I  with  the  dross  of  earth.  Encouraged  by  the  beauteous 
vision,  we  go  on,  braver  and  better  for  the  foretaste  of  the  blessings 
beyond.  Earthly  felicity  is  to  unalloyed  happiness,  what  the 
blossom  is  to  the  fruit — only  a  promise,  for  man's  inheritance  on 
earth  is  sorrow.  Having  this,  he  will  not  cease  to  strive  and  long 
for  that  true  Home  where  Mercy's  hand  shall  brush  away  every  tear, 
and  happiness  unclouded  will  be  his  forever. 


HAPPINESS  69 

WHY  Is  THERE  So  LITTLE  HAPPINESS  ? 

The  beautiful  vision  called  happiness  assumes  many  a  form  and 
semblance,  according  to  the  ideal  that  is  formed  by  those  who  seek 
it.  Sometimes  it  is  a  picture  of  earthly  triumph  and  world-wide 
fame  that  lures  man  on  to  deeds  of  grandeur  and  bravery  ;  some- 
times the  phantom  is  of  beauteous  mien  ;  richest  robes  bedecked 
with  jewels,  clothe  the  graceful  form,  the  dainty  hand  beckons 
the  deluded  victim,  and  untrammeled  pleasure  claims  another 
follower. 

But  is  not  this  a  happy  lot  to  follow,  to  overtake  such  dreams  of 
loveliness  ?  Yes,  it  would  be  bliss  indeed,  if  attainment  could  sat- 
isfy all  expectation.  But  it  is  not  so.  No  sooner  does  the  admiration 
of  a  world  rise  up  before  the  conqueror,  than  the  sickening  void 
within  his  bosom  seems  to  echo  the  myriad  voices  that  proclaim  how 
vain  and  empty  is  the  glory  that  once  shone  so  resplendent. 

The  very  consciousness  that  the  long-sought  joy  is  in  his 
grasp  makes  the  beauty  that  once  enticed  the  youthful  mind,  a 
source  of  anguish  to  the  fortunate  possessor  ;  he  now  realizes  that 
it  was  only  distance  that  made  the  scene  enchanting.  The  lovely 
phantom  of  wealth,  fame,  and  pleasure  never  is  overtaken,  for  when 
we  reach  the  spot  where,  but  an  instant  before,  she  stood,  we  find 
that  she  has  fled. 

Thus  all  life  long  the  chase  is  followed  in  vain,  because  we 
search  for  happiness  where  it  is  not,  like  one  who  in  the  dark  goes 
round  and  round  his  destination,  never  dreaming  it  lies  so  near, 
thinking  to  find  happiness  in  riches,  or  in  worldly  honors,  while  it 
lies  quietly  by  his  side  in  his  daily  avocations.  Nor  will  he  search 
in  sorrow's  cup  for  the  magic  gift,  but  fly  with  frightened  heart 
from  every  shadow  of  suffering,  forgetting  that  Gethsemane  and 
Calvary  lay  on  the  road  to  Olivet,  and  that  God  is  often  pleased  to 
place  the  most  ennobling  happiness  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  draught 
of  sorrow. 


70  SILVER  JUBILEE  MEMORIAL 

Ah  !  if  we  could  view  life's  winding  vale  from  death's  dark 
mount,  there  we  would  see  where  each  deceptive  pathway  leads,  and 
choose  that  which  takes  us  straight  to  God. 


WHICH  ARE  OUR  HAPPIEST  DAYS  ? 

In  every  life  record  we  find  days  blotted  and  blurred  with 
tears  ;  but  not  according  to  these  must  we  judge  of  the  individual's 
life,  but  rather  according  to  those  catalogued  as  red-letter  days.  A 
red-letter  day,  or  one  of  special  and  striking  happiness,  is  not 
merely  a  day  of  gay  festivities  or  a  succession  of  pleasurable  emo- 
tions. Such  a  day  may  be  nothing  more  than  a  kind  of  torpor,  all 
desires  and  restless  craving  for  something  higher  and  more  lasting 
having  been  lulled  to  rest  by  intoxicating  excitement  and  sheer 
animal  enjoyment,  thus  producing  a  temporary  counterfeit  of  bliss. 

Which  then  are  our  happiest  days?  Are  they  the  "days  of  triumph 
and  of  mirth"  ?  The  days  when  scenes  of  earth's  fair  beauty  crowd 
around?  The  days  when  admiration  wafts  sweet  incense  to  the 
hero  of  the  hour  ?  No,  far  from  it.  They  are  days  of  stillness  and 
repose,  when,  unnoticed  by  the  surging  throng,  some  deed  of  worth 
in  God's  pure  sight  is  wrought  in  secret  and  alone.  They  are  days 
when  self  is  all  forgotten  ;  days  when  a  fellow-creature  claims  our 
best  endeavor  ;  days  in  which  we  experience  after  a  duty  well  done, 
that  sweet  calm  which  is  the  friend  of  a  pure  conscience,  and  which 
surpasses  all  that  the  world  can  offer. 

Adulations  add  not  to  this  joy  supreme,  for  when  most  neglected, 
most  despised,  the  heart  may  be  happiest.  A  writer  has  beautifully 
said,  "  In  vain  do  they  talk  of  happiness,  who  never  subdued  an 
impulse  in  obedience  to  a  principle.  He  who  never  sacrifices  a 
present  to  a  future  good,  or  a  personal  to  a  general  cause,  can  speak 
of  happiness  only  as  the  blind  do  of  colors." 


HAPPINESS  71 


The  pathway  of  faithfulness  is  rugged,  and  every  step  calls  forth 
a  pang  to  compensate  for  every  joy.  But,  oh  !  who  can  compare 
the  sacrifice  with  the  achievement,  the  anguish  with  the  bliss  ? 


THE  BANE  OP  TRUE  HAPPINESS 

Cast  a  glance  around  you  and  see  where  happiness  dwells 
not.  In  her  place  you  will  see  selfishness  sitting  enthroned  in  the 
human  heart  and  keeping  happiness  far  off,  while  its  victim  wanders 
on,  longing  and  searching  for  the  magic  gift.  Men  would  enjoy 
happiness  alone,  and  their  jealous  hearts  forbid  others  to  enjoy  it 
with  them.  They  do  not  see  that  she  is.  not  a  creature  of  solitude, 
that  she  cannot  abide  in  narrow  hearts,  but  delights  to  dwell  in  the 
large  and  generous  soul  ;  with  strange  inconsistency,  she  comes  to 
us  in  all  her  charms,  only  when  we  are  striving  to  hire  her  to  visit  a 
fellow -"man. 

The  man  who  selfishly  hoards  his  joys,  and  thinks  to  increase 
them,  is  like  one  who,  looking  at  his  own  full  granary,  which  he 
boasts  of  keeping  from  the  soil  and  mill,  marvels  at  his  neighbors' 
wastefulness  when  they  sow  in  the  Spring.  The  golden  Autumn 
comes,  and  while  he  has  only  his  few  bushels  preserved,  their  fields 
are  yellow  with  an  abundant  harvest. 

Our  peace  and  joy  must  flow  out  to  others  like  "  gifts  and 
attainments  which  are  not  only  destined  to  be  light  and  warmth  in 
our  own  dwellings,  but  are  as  well  to  shine  through  the  window  in 
the  dark  night,  to  guide  and  cheer  bewildered  travelers  upon  the 
road." 

"  Live  not  to  thyself  alone,"  but  give  of  the  little  God  has  given 
thee  ;  then  in  the  effort  made  to  throw  sunshine  into  the  life  of  a 
brother,  our  own  hearts  will  catch  the  light  that  is  reflected,  and  we 
will  be  happy  in  the  consciousness  of  making  others  happy. 

Tennyson  has  said  :  "  Dark  is  the  world  to  thee;  thyself  art  the 
reason  why." 


72  SILVER  JUBILEE  MEMORIAL 

As  we  are  each  weaving  our  web  of  life,  we  can  put  bright  colors 
on  Time's  loom,  or  we  can  weave  our  web  all  one  dull  dark  gray. 
The  task  lies  before  us ;  the  power  and  the  means  we  have.  "Will  each 
coming  moment  beam  with  happiness  ?  It  rests  with  us  and  is 
contained  in  one  short  word — unselfishness.  If  men  were  but  unselfish, 
if  the  rich  would  look  beyond  the  narrow  horizon  of  their  own 
bright  clime  to  the  wintry  realm  of  the  poor  ;  if  each  would  give  a 
helping  hand  to  some  weak  brother,  this  earth  would  soon  become 
all  peace,  all  bliss,  and  naught  but  "  good  will "  reign  among  the 
sons  of  men. 

* 

WHAT  SHALL  I  Do  To  BE  HAPPY  ? 

We  sit  in  the  darkness  and  gloom  of  selfishness  and  ask  this 
piteous  question  with  clouded  face  that  portrays  the  want  of  true 
happiness  within  our  souls. 

Our  Divine  Master  Himself  was  our  teacher  when  He  said, 
"  Be  thou  faithful  until  death,  and  I  will  give  thee  the  crown  of 
eternal  life."  Faithfulness  in  accomplishing  our  duty  will  win  for 
us  eternal  happiness;  and  although  God  promises  a  full  reward 
only  after  this  life,  yet  every  one  has  felt  that  even  here  the  reward 
of  sweet  peace  and  content  follows  a  duty  well  performed.  Duty  is 
not  a  meager  accomplishment  of  our  daily  avocations,  not  the  hard 
unsympathetic  meting  out  of  justice  ;  but  it  is  our  every  action 
done  with  love. 

Life  for  the  most  part  is  made  up  of  little  things  :  each  thought, 
each  act,  lends  its  aid  to  make  up  the  sum  of  a  life-time.  Few  are 
called  to  glorious  deeds,  but  all  to  do  their  best,  however  small  it 
may  be.  An  active  life,  full  of  kindness  is  always  the-  happiest. 
One  word  of  encouragement  that  cheers  a  fainting  brother  ;  one 
word  of  brightness  that  brings  a  smile  to  some  care-worn  counte- 
nance ;  one  word  of  Heaven  that  raises  up  some  soul  from  earth  ; 
even  a  tender  thought  of  pity  that  may  not  venture  beyond  the 
precincts  of  the  heart — all  these  have  power  to  make  our  lives  most 


5  o 


HAPPINESS  73 

happy.  And  if  these  little  things  can  bring  happiness,  how  much 
more  will  it  follow  a  prayer  well  said,  a  duty  bravely  done,  a 
triumph  over  self — the  hardest  of  life's  battles  ! 

With  the  impress  of  time  we  should  grow  more  thoughtful, 
more  generous,  more  self-sacrificing,  and  consequently  more  ready 
to  bestow  kindness  upon  our  fellow-creatures.  For  we  have  learned 
by  experience  how  often  we  stand  in  need  of  hearing  what  we  know 
full  well ;  our  own  balsam  must  be  poured  into  our  hearts  by 
another's  hand. 

Let  us  ever  bear  in  mind  that  "  Happiness  is  a  perfume,  and  we 
cannot  pour  it  upon  others  without  getting  a  few  drops  ourselves." 


No  VIRTUE,  No  HAPPINESS 

Earth  with  all  its  pleasures  and  its  beauties,  was  born  to  die  ; 
man's  doom  was  uttered  in  Eden.  "  Dust  thouart  and  to  dust  thou 
shalt  return."  Man's  soul  alone  can  escape  annihilation,  for  it  was 
made  for  Heaven  and  immortality.  It  is  now  a  prisoner  chained  to 
its  cell  by  the  very  life  that  we  endeavor  to  enjoy.  If  to  earth  we 
cling,  with  it  we  shall  pass  away.  The  tiny  insect  that  loves  to 
dwell  in  the  frail  cup  of  the  wayside  flow'ret  will,  when  the  dainty 
blossom  fades,  be  trampled  with  it  in  the  dust  of  the  roadside. 

All  happiness  is  false  that  has  not  virtue  as  a  foundation. 
Virtue  alone  can  give  that  peace,  that  rest,  and  that  bliss  for  which 
man  has  been  created.  Alas  !  he  has  not  always  been  consistent  : 
he  has  wandered  into  by-paths  ;  he  has  sought  after  happiness  in 
the  accumulation  of  wordly  goods,  in  the  gratification  of  the  sensual 
appetite.  But  he  has  sought  in  vain,  until  the  soul,  which  is  a 
breath  of  life  from  God's  bosom,  great,  noble  and  expansive,  has 
become  little,  narrow,  and  craving,  after  the  "  husks  of  swine  in  a 
far-off  country,"  removed  from  God's  grace  and  blessing,  and  con- 
sequently from  true  happiness. 


74  SILVER  JUBILEE  MEMORIAL 

How  impossible  for  happiness  and  vice  to  dwell  together  ! 
As  well  might  the  dove  and  the  tiger  lie  down  together  in  sweet  com- 
panionship. Happiness  is  heaven-born,  vice  sprang  into  being  when 
the  bright  sun  of  Lucifer  had  set  forever.  How  can  all  the  beauties, 
all  the  pleasures  of  the  world  delight  the  man  whose  soul  is  hard- 
ened with  sin  ?  He  may  gaze  on  the  loveliness  around,  he  may  listen 
to  the  joyous  strains  of  music,  he  may  dwell  in  the  midst  of  comfort 
and  luxury  ;  yet  ever  within  his  bosom  a  voice  will  reproach.  In 
every  beauty  there  will  lurk  a  mocking  demon  ;  in  every  strain  of 
music  there  will  be  an  undertone  of  despair  ;  in  all  the  pleasures  of 
wealth,  will  lie  in  waiting  some  frightful  vision  to  dash  away  his 
dreams  of  happiness. 

Virtue  is  the  handmaid  of  Happiness  ;  she  goes  before  to  pre- 
pare hearts  for  her  reception.  When  all  is  ready,  Happiness  enters 
with  that  "  peace  which  the  world  cannot  give,"  and  the  heart  rests 
secure  in  that  joy  "  which  no  man  shall  take  from  it." 


EARTHLY  HAPPINESS,  A  REFLECTION  OF  HEAVEN 

"  We  see  now  through  a  glass  darkly  ;  but  then,  face  to  face." 
While  all  our  life's  best  efforts  are  made  for  the  sole  great  boon  of 
happiness,  the  inmost  soul  ever  breathes  the  same  refrain,  "  Earth 
cannot  know  happiness.''  God  has  given  these  fleeting  gleams  of 
brightness  to  light  our  homeward  path,  and  not  to  give  us  full  enjoy- 
ment while  still  we  linger  in  our  dreary  exile.  He  has  placed  around 
us  loved  ones,  not  that  our  hearts  should  look  no  further,  but  that 
in  their  virtues  we  should  find  reminders  of  the  Infinite  Loveliness 
beyond.  How  much  better  we  will  know  and  love  them  when  we 
greet  them  in  the  Home  above  !  Then  the  untrammeled  soul  will 
reveal  all  those  beauties  we  could  not  know  fully  before. 

Life  is  a  mighty  work-room  where  the  kind  Master  has  hung, 
here  and  there,  mirrors  that  give  to  the  laborer's  upturned  eyes, 
passing  reflections  of  the  azure  heavens.  These  pictures  of  beauty 


HAPPINESS  x       75 

are  unseen  by  those  whose  gaze  is  ever  riveted  below,  and  only  those 
who  look  above  in  their  hours  of  lowly  labor  can  view  the  loveliness 
therein  depicted.  Then,  too,  their  designs  will  be  most  beauteous, 
for  they  will  work  in  scenes  of  purest  beauty.  And  yet,  look  at  the 
bent  form  of  the  laborers.  How  few  raise  their  eyes  above  !  How 
many  are  seeking  models  from  the  dusty  floor  !  How  many 
are  regardless  of  the  Master's  kind  endeavor  for  their  success  1 
Surely  they  can  never  hope  to  achieve  their  end  ;  for  while  they  are 
wasting  the  precious  moments  in  vain  search  for  what  they  cannot 
find,  the  twilight  is  closing  upon  them  and  the  Master  comes  to  view 
the  results  of  the  day's  labor.  Confusion  and  shame  are  now  their 
portion,  and  the  shadows  of  night  bring  for  them  no  peaceful  home 
of  joyful  rest,  but  darkness  and  despair. 

Oh  !  let  us  ever  raise  our  eyes  to  Heaven  amid  the  toils  of  life. 
Then  when  twilight  brings  the  close  of  day,  all  the  labor  of  our  life's 
hours  will  surely  be  blessed  of  God. 

Class  of  '90 


4,-M 


Convent  o/  our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 


of  h^e 


A  soft  feathery  snowflake  drifted  slowly  down  to  earth,  who 
extended  her  arms  and  folded  the  pale  wanderer  to  her  heart.  ''  Lie 
here,  little  one,"  she  whispered  low,  "  lie  here  till  my  fair  daughter 
Spring  comes  in  her  youthful  beauty  ;  then  shalt  thou  make  choice 
of  a  state  of  existence  from  the  many  that  I  will  show  to  thee." 
All  through  the  winter  the  snowflake  slumbered,  till  at  last  it  heard 
in  the  distance  the  sweet  carol  of  birds,  and  all  the  air  seemed  one 
vast  storehouse  of  rare  perfumes.  Then  it  felt  a  wonderful  restless- 
ness steal  over  its  spirit  and  said  to  Mother  Earth  :  "  Let  me  go 
forth  ;  give  me  some  aim  in  life,  for  I  can  no  longer  abide  this 
sleeping  away  of  my  time."  "  Thou  art  right,  my  child,"  she 
answered,  "  'Tis  time  to  choose  how  thou  wilt  serve  thy  Maker. 
Many  are  the  siiowflakes  that  I  have  cherished  in  my  heart  and 
placed  at  length  where  God  needed  them  most.  See  the  vast  Ocean: 
his  waters  like  a  silvery  zone  girdle  me  round  ;  his  snow-capped  waves 
are  ever  saluting  me  as  they  bear  in  chivalric  pride  rich  treasures 
to  my  store  —  coral  that  rivals  the  red  of  fairest  maidens'  lips  ;  pearls 
that  the  haughtiest  of  my  children  stoop  to  gather  ;  while  the  shells 
and  moss  that  he  brings  to  me  have  tints  and  texture  so  delicate 
that  man  with  all  his  boasted  art  can  only  admire  —  equal  he  cannot. 
He  yields  me  constant  incense  in  the  vapors  that  are  rising  from  his 
waters.  These  float  over  me  and  cool  the  winds  that  come  sighing 
in  the  languishing  summer  time.  Again  they  fall  as  gentle  rain  on 
the  thirsty  flowers.  But  ofttimes  the  flowers  have  not  need  for  all 
that  the  grand  and  generous  old  ocean  sends  in  the  rain  ;  yet  I  do 
not  permit  it  to  waste,  I  treasure  it  up.  Deep  in  my  bosom  it  sinks, 


THE  MISSION  OF  THE  KNOW  FLAKE  77 

and  bye  and  bye  I  show  it  some  tiny  opening  where  it  trickles  down 
through  a  rocky  crevice.  First,  slowly  and  noiselessly  it  runs  along, 
but  as  it  finds  its  pathway  growing  wider,  it  laughs  to  itself  with  a 
rippling  sound  which  the  hills  and  Woods  around  give  back  with  a 
merrier  echo,  while  the  valley  now  lays  off  its  garb  of  sombre 
brown,  and  dons  a  suit  of  richest  green  with  royal  trimmings  of 
purple  and  gold.  Deeper  and  wider  the  tiny  stream  grows,  with  a 
song  ever  on  its  lips  as  it  plays  around  the  stones  that  lie  in  its 
way,  for  now  it  knows  it  is  drawing  near  to  its  ocean  home.  Nearer 
and  nearer  it  draws,  now  it  lays  aside  the  careless  air,  as  it  thinks 
of  its  mighty  origin — majesty  and  sublimity  mark  its  closing  path. 
The  gurgling,  splashing  music,  that  accompanied  the  turning  of  the 
village  mill-wheel,  and  the  placid  waters  that  mirror  each  sweet 
maid  as  she  lingers  on  the  rustic  bridge  to  gaze  with  dreamy  eyes 
into  the  brooklet's  depths,  now  give  way  to  the  roar  and  dash  of  a 
Niagara's  furious  waters  or  the  deep  mysterious  flow  of  a  grand  and 
mighty  river.  At  length  it  reaches  once  more  the  mighty  ocean 
who  takes  it  into  his  arms  and  listens  to  the  story  of  all  its  doings. 

"  I  have  other  means  of  storing  the  beauty  of  the  ocean.  I  seize 
the  rain  in  its  passage  over  my  mountain  heights,  and  I  turn  its 
diamonds  into  pearls  ;  then  I  form  a  cloth  of  these  jewels  and  I 
spread  it  over  my  coldest  regions  to  warm  my  children  beneath  ;  and 
some  of  the  moisture  that  ladens  the  air  I  gather  in  crystal  drops 
to  gem  the  delicate  flowers.  On  the  tall  fair  lily  and  the  graceful 
bluebell  I  hang  these  jewels,  and  even  seek  out  the  modest  violet 
hiding  away  under  velvety  hangings  to  deck  it  with  my  fairest 
gems.  All  this  and  much  more  do  I  owe  to  the  ocean  with  its 
bountiful  waters,  but  God  has  added  another  gift  to  please  my 
children  here,  and  give  them  the  hopes  of  a  brighter  life  when  this 
has  passed  away.  When  the  rain  falls  like  my  children's  tears, 
God  smiles  a  smile  of  comforting  love  and  there  comes  in  the  skies 
a  beautiful  bow,  penciled  with  sunbeams  and  dyed  with  many  and 
glorious  hues,  and  his  children  take  jcomfort  therefrom.  Hope  lives 


78  SILVER  JUBILEE  MEMORIAL 

once  more  in  their  bosoms  with  strength  renewed  ;  they  take  up 
once  more  life's  burden  which  before  they  bore  so  wearily.  Now 
little  snowflake  choose  from  these  ;  what  shall  thy  mission  be? 
And  the  snowflake  softly  answered,  "  Not  in  the  dew  would  I  live, 
for  this  passes  away  with  the  morning  sun  ;  nor  in  the  stream, 
though  happy  its  mission,  but  I  would  rise  from  lowly  things — I 
would  draw  near  to  man's  Maker.  I  would  dwell  in  His  beautiful 
bow  that  I  might  give  to  thy  children,  O  Earth,  hope  in  their  hour 
of  despair,  and  strength  to  carry  the  burden  of  life.  But  more,  far 
more  than  this  would  I  do,  for  I  would  teach  them  to  love." 

KATE  FITZ  WILLIAM. 
Convent  of  our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 


JVTy 


How  sweet  the  above  words  sound  to  our  ears  1  But  far  sweeter 
is  the  blissful  realization  of  their  true  meaning,  for  it  is  a  home 
worthy  of  the  name  it  bears.  'Tis  a  lovely  spot  encircled  by  a  band 
of  cypress  trees,  some  of  which  rear  their  lofty  heads  toward  the 
smiling  heavens  and  stretch  out  their  hospitable  arms,  seeming  to 
invite  us  to  rest  beneath  their  shadows.  Grand  and  majestic  rises 
the  stately  building,  like  some  enchanted  castle,  with  its  circling 
foliage  of  shady  trees,  velvet  lawns,  bright  patches  of  smiling 
flowers,  and  inviting  orchards  with  their  wealth  of  golden  fruit, 
made  unapproachable  by  a  green  hedge  over  which  sundry  longing 
peeps  are  taken  by  curious  school  girls.  Overlooking  all  is  the 
cross-crowned  tower,  mounting  proudly  to  the  smiling  skies.  In 
the  background,  peering  through  green  arches  gleaming  with  its 
heaven -borrowed  hues,  is  a  quiet  lake  upon  whose  placid  bosom 
countless  white  sails  are  continually  flitting.  On  loved  holidays 
the  "  Rosa,"  "  Aloysius  "  and  u  Swan  "  go  forth  to  swell  the  number 
of  fairy  crafts,  each  bearing  a  happy  freight  of  laughing  school-girls, 
whose  merry  voices  float  out  upon  the  breeze  as  they  skim  over  the 
waters  of  the  blue  lake. 

Leaving  the  happy  rowers  to  enjoy  their  boat  ride,  we  will 
take  a  stroll  through  the  grounds,  and  admire  God's  fairest  gifts, 
the  flowers,  which  he  has  so  generously  bestowed  upon  this  one  of 
His  favorite  spots.  All  are  here,  from  the  stately  sun-flower  to  the 
modest  violet  that  peers  shyly  up  as  we  pass  by.  There  is  one  spot 
carefully  circled  by  faithful  cypress,  where  white  flowers  bloom 
untouched  by  childish  fingers,  where  the  drooping  willow  keeps  a 


80  SILVER  JUBILEE  MEMORIAL 

tender  watch  over  two  lonely  graves.  The  black  cross,  marking  the 
resting  place  of  one  of  God's  chosen  ones,  is  covered  with  clinging 
ivy,  twining  gracefully  around  it  as  if  to  soften  its  dark  outlines. 
There  the  mischief-loving  children  are  hushed  in  their  glee, 
hurrying  feet  tread  more  lightly,  more  slowly  past  that  sacred  spot 
where  reigns  a  holy  calm  like  the  soft  breath  of  prayer.  Continuing 
our  walk  we  enter  the  summer  house  built  by  nature  herself,  of 
cypress,  which  is  kept  trimmed  in  the  shape  of  a  hollow  mound. 
In  this  shady  retreat  are  spread,  on  feast  days,  sumptuous  repasts 
to  be  partaken  of  in  true  picnic  style.  Still  farther  is  the  Grotto  of 
Our  Lady  of  Lourdes  with  roses  clambering  over  its  mimic  rocks  and 
from  her  niche  in  the  rock  over  head,  our  Holy  Mother  seems  to 
invoke  a  blessing  on  all  who  kneel  at  her  shrine. 

But  what  shady  nook  is  that  we  see?  'Tis  the  "  Rustic  Seat" 
so  well  beloved  by  all  the  girls.  Let  us  rest  beneath  the  cool  shade 
of  the  overhanging  pepper  tree  and  await  the  return  of  the  merry 
boaters,  the  dripping  of  whose  oars  is  now  plainly  heard. 

Ah!  beautiful  home,  would  that  Time  and  Youth  could  ever 
linger  within  thy  pleasant  shades!  But  change,  ruthless  change, 
calls  many  from  thy  fold.  We,  too,  one  day  will  have  to  leave  thee, 
to  leave  forevermore  thy  sunny  bowers,  thy  dear  old  walks  by  the  lake- 
side, thy  loved  haunts,  thy  sweet  associations,  thy  dear  and  happy 
inmates.  But  ever  in  our  hearts  will  we  cherish  a  fond  remem- 
brance of  the  home  of  our  school-days. 

KATE  CORNELL, 
Convent  of  our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  CaL 


m  ij        epviee  of 


Artists  are  nearest  to  God.     Into  their  souls 

"  He  breathes  His  life,  and  from  their  hands 
It  comes  in  fair  articulate  forms 
To  bless  the  world." 

God  is  infinite  truth  and  perfect  beauty.  Without  the  existence 
of  God  as  infinite  truth,  science  is  impossible,  for  it  can  never  be 
well  grounded,  unless  it  rests  upon  the  eternal  and  first  cause.  As 
perfect  beauty,  God  is  the  ideal  of  the  soul  in  every  conception  of 
art.  "  There  is  in  man  a  memory  of  the  perfection  with  which  he 
was  sent  forth  from  the  hands  of  his  Creator  ;  there  is  also  a  crav- 
ing to  fashion  himself  after  a  picture  of  his  imagination  conformable 
to  the  idea  he  possesses  of  the  beautiful — a  type  combining  the  first 
and  last  excellence  of  being  ;  which  it  is  his  to  enjoy,  since  he  has 
a  conception  of  it,  and  to  which  he  ought  to  be  able  to  arrive,  since 
he  aspires  towards  it.  Thus  from  remembrance  and  a  feeling  of  a 
hereafter  is  born  poetry,  is  born  art  ;  the  expression  of  ideal  beauty 
under  a  created  form,  either  gleaming  on  canvas,  breathing  in  mar- 
ble, or  speaking  from  the  living  page." 

It  is  this  ideal  that  wins  the  love  of  man,  raises  him  on  the 
wings  of  contemplation,  and  bears  him  aloft  toward  the  Infinite. 
It  gives  to  Nature  its  religious  power  over  man,  for  this  ideal  is  a 
gleam  from  the  face  of  God  which  has  penetrated  the  clouds  of  the 

6  81 


82  SILVER    JUBILEE   MEMORIAL 

material  world,  and  is  reflected  through  the  blue  heavens,  the  starry 
sky,  or  whatever  is  grand  or  beautiful  in  nature.  "  Man  is  neces- 
sarily impressed  and  ennobled  by  the  beautiful,  for  there  is  nothing 
sensuous  in  the  idea  of  true  beauty.  Its  property  is  .to  purify 
desire,  not  to  inflame.  Hemfe  art  addresses  itself  less  to  the  sense 
than  to  the  soul  ;  it  seeks  to  awaken  not  desire,  but  sentiment. 
Chastity  and  beauty  see^each  other.  Chastity  is  beautiful,  and 
beauty  is  chaste.  Therefore,  art  which  is  the  expression  of  beauty, 
is  necessarily  moral,  elevating  and  religious."  Man  feels  its  in- 
fluence steal  over  him,  inspiring  him  with  a  holy  longing  to  return 
to  that  home  from  which  he  has  caught  one  glimmering  ray. 

Is  it  not  true  that  all  the  creations  of  art  aim  heavenward  ? 
Each  in  its  own  way  aspires  to  perfect  beauty.  The  massive  Cathe- 
dral, rising  above  the  surrounding  habitations  of  man,  points  firm 
and  fearless,  straight  to  Heaven.  Silently  it  proclaims  the  word  of 
God  and  the  destiny  of  man.  The  marble  statue  is  but  the  created 
form  of  the  ideal  form  in  the  sculptor's  soul  ;  and  the  ideal  is 
always  spiritual,  heavenly.  In  painting,  music  and  poetry  is  seen 
the  religious  tendency  and  through  them  runs  a  vein  of  religious 
sentiment.  In  them  is  an  echo  of  the  Infinite.  In  them  are  strains 
of  mortal  music  whose  keynote  is  the  rapturous  melodies  of  Heaven. 

The  true  artist  seeks  after  beauty  ;  that  only  is  beautiful  which  is 
perfect,  and  what  is  perfect  must  necessarily  be  true,  good — God- 
like. The  tendency  to  the  author  of  all  perfection. 

Art,  I  repeat,  is  necessarily  religious.  But  our  nature  being 
material,  it  is  only  by  striking  the  sense  that  we  rise  to  the  spiritual, 
and  it  is  thus  that  art  acts  as  a  medium  between  the  soul  and  the 
body  ;  as  a  chain,  a  bridge,  connecting  Heaven  and  Earth.'  We 
rise  by  its  aid,  on  the  wings  of  contemplation  to  spirituality  and  to 
God.  When  we  look  upon  a  lovely  scene  of  nature,  or  gaze  on  the 
glory  of  a  sunset  sky,  the  soul  expands,  is  overcome  with  a  sense  of 
the  beautiful  and  is  drawn  irresistibly  to  God.  It  is  the  silent 
homage  of  the  soul  to  the  Creator.  It  fills  us  with  what  we  call 
"  inspiration,"  and  it  is  in  such  moments  that  the  poet  pours  forth 


ART   /A*    THE   SERVICE   OF  RELIGION  83 

his  fullest  melody  of  words,  whose  mighty  thoughts  roll  out  uncon- 
scious from  the  richness  of  his  soul.  'Tis  then  that  the  painter 
seems  to  have  caught  a  ray  from  the  celestial  sun,  and  the  brush  in 
his  hand  seems  to  move  to  the  promptings  of  some  guiding  angel. 
'Tis  then  that  the  musician  vents  the  ecstasy  of  his  soul  in  showers 
of  ethereal  melody.  Yet  in  the  poet,  the  painter,  the  musician,  it 
is  the  same  angel  of  inspiration  that  whispers  to  their  souls.  This 
joy,  this  exultant  feeling,  has  the  same  cause  ;  it  is  the  effect  of  the 
beautiful,  and  each  one  gives  vent  to  his  emotions  by  the  power  or 
gift  which  is  prominent  in  his  nature.  For  Art  is  an  inspiration, 
and  an  inspiration  can  come  only  from  God.  And  since  we  love 
God  as  beauty,  we  love  God  in  Art,  which  is  an  expression  of  the 
beautiful — itself  a  reflection  of  God. 

Can  we  then  separate  Art — the  work  of  the  God-like  nature 
within,  the  incarnation  of  spiritual  sentiment — can  we  separate  it 
from  Religion  ? 

What  seems  to  prove  that  Art  is  a  child  of  Religion,  is  that 
never  have  its  creations  risen  so  high  as  when  in  her  service.  Beauti- 
ful may  be  the  stately  mansion  or  gorgeous  palace,  they  please  and 
charm  the  eye.  But  enter  a  temple  raised  to  the  honor  of  God,'how> 
different  the  pleasure!  Then  beauty  is  of  a  higher  kind.  The  walls 
and  arches  look  down  in  silent  eloquence.  A  something  in  their 
solemn  majesty  commands  reverence. 

Sculpture  peoples  the  shrines  of  Religion  with  myriad  saints 
and  angels.  Painting  grows  immortal  as  it  reveals  her  truths  with 
all  their  purity  and  holiness.  Religion  gives  to  music  that  celestial 
voice  which  lures  the  soul  to  its  home  above.  In  poetry  she  pours 
a  language  in  our  hearts  that  speaks  to  the  ear  of  the  Infinite. 

Thus  Art  would  ever  make  the  visible  beautiful,  that  we  might 
ascend  to  the  beautiful  invisible.  Art  and  Religion  must  then  go 
forth  hand  in  hand — Religion  as  the  inspirer  of  true  Art,  and  Art 
as  the  handmaid  of  Religion. 


84  SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 


ARCHITECTURE. 

Foremost  among  the  fine  arts  stands  Architecture.  Man  in  his 
fallen  state  built  a  wretched  hut,  or  scooped  out  a  cave  wherein  to 
shelter  himself  and  his  family ;  but  when  he  wished  to  give  worship  to 
the  Deity,  he  erected  an  altar,  decked  it  with  festoons  and  sought  to 
make  it  fair.  And  thus  it  is  through  all  ages,  man  has  ever  had 
his  temples.  Under  the  influence  of  Religion  man  has  wrought  his 
grandest  works ;  when  we  gaze  on  some  great  mass  of  stone,  chast- 
ened and  purified  by  the  spirit  of  holiness  that  pervades  it,  instinct- 
ively we  feel  the  presence  of  God.  The  mind  expands  when  it 
beholds  such  spaciousness  and  strength — the  work  of  man's  feeble 
hand  grown  strong  in  faith.  And  what  could  profess  his  faith  more 
loudly  than  the  grand  old  Gothic  cathedral!  There  the  smallest 
ornament  has  its  religious  significance.  The  triple  portal  bids  us 
marvel  at  the  mystery  of  the  triune  God;  the  iris-hued  rose  window 
recalls  his  mystical  unity.  The  tabernacle  with  its  silken  curtains 
gives  a  hint  of  the  sanctuaries  of  old.  The  very  shape  of  the  church 
— a  cross — is  a  commemoration  of  the  death  that  brought  life  to 
mankind,  and  which  rests  there  as  a  foundation  upon  which  our 
Holy  Religion  is  built.  The  silence  and  gloom  of  the  crypt  reminds  us 
of  the  shadow  of  death  and  of  the  dimness  of  man's  soul  when 
steeped  in  ignorance  and  sin.  The  lofty  spire  seems  a  finger  point- 
ing heavenward  and  calling  our  attention  to  the  glittering  cross  by 
which  alone  victory  can  be  obtained  over  the  powers  of  hell. 

"Ah!  those  cathedrals  of  the  middle  ages  pre-eminently  bespeak 
the  faith  of  those  times.  The  wonders  of  a  beauty  most  sublime 
and  spiritual  were  not  wrought  at  the  decrees  of  princes,  but  at  the 
inspiration  of  Faith  and  Charity.  Entire  populations  toiled  at  the 
sacred  task.  It  is  not  astonishing  that  they  produced  «uch  extra- 
ordinary results,  Salisbury,  Cologne,  Strasbourg,  Rheims,  Paris! 
On  beholding  such  vast  structures,  your  massive  piles,  one  feels  as 
if  the  inspiration  of  a  million  religious  souls  had  materialized!'' 


ART  IN  THE  SERVICE   OF  RELIGION  85 

Review  those  grand  structures:  Milan  looms  up  as  a  glorious  embod- 
iment of  Faith. 

Only  some  angelic  spirit  could  portray  its  perfection  and 
grandeur.  Like  some  fair  mirage  suspended  in  air  does  it  appear, 
so  ethereal  and  immaculate  looking  are  its  thousand  pinnacles. 
One  would  think  that  some  spirit  had  thrown  over  it  a  veil  of  driven 
snow,  embroidered  and  begemmed  with  myriad  jewels,  for  only  thus 
can  one  account  for  the  richness  and  delicacy  of  this  massive  pile. 

And  what  of  that  grandest  of  temples — St.  Peter's  at  Rome  I  I 
shall  glean  a  few  quotations — the  first  from  that  charming  book — 
"A  Sister's  Story." 

"  In  Gothic  churches  our  first  impulse  is  to  kneel  and  bow 
down  in  humble  prayer  and  deep  contrition,  while  in  St.  Peter's  on 
the  contrary,  the  spontaneous  feeling  is  to  open  our  arms  wide  with 
joy,  and  to  look  up  to  heaven  with  rapturous  enthusiasm.  Sin 
does  not  seem  to  crush  us  there.  A  consciousness  of  forgiveness 
through  the  triumph  of  the  Resurrection  fills  the  whole  soul." 

Listen  to  this  eloquent  stanza  from  Byron: 

"  Enter,  its  grandeur  overwhelms  thee  not; 
And  why?     It  is  not  lessened,  but  thy  mind, 
Expanded  by  the  genius  of  the  spot, 
Has  grown  colossal,  and  can  only  find 
A  fit  abode  wherein  appear  enshrined 
Thy  hopes  of  immortality." 

One  more  quotation — that  very  familiar  one  from  Mme.  de 
Stael's  Corinne: 

"  The  architecture  of  St.  Peter's  is  frozen  music." 

Ah!  yes,  I  add,  it  is  truly  the  music  of  a  great  and  mighty  soul. 
I  can  well  imagine  it  to  be  some  grand  triumphal  hymn  that  has 
suddenly  been  stayed  in  its  heavenward  flight  and  transformed  into 
a  permanent  hymn  of  praise  to  God.  Thus  tower,  and  spires,  and 
wondrous  domes,  uprise  all  over  the  earth,  as  silent  guides  'in  our 
wanderings  here  below,  ever  pointing  out  our  way  to  the  home 
towards  which  we,  as  pilgrims  are  traveling. 


86  SILVER    JUBILEE   MEMORIAL 


SCULPTURE. 

We  love  the  marble  spell  of  sculpture  that  binds  the  ideal  of  a 
master-mind  almost  imperishably  before  us.  Its  fairest  conceptions 
are  in  the  service  of  religion  ;  it  is  that  very  spirit  of  religion 
breathed  into  them  that  has  made  them  immortal. 

As  architecture  has  been  styled  "frozen  music"  so  might 
sculpture  be  called  a  "frozen  poem."  It  is  the  giving  of  form  to 
the  conception  of  the  soul.  It  is  one  mighty  thought,  arrested  by 
an  angel  in  its  flight  through  the  mind,  a  conception  worthy  of 
being  known  to  other  minds,  and  revealed  in  all  the  whiteness  of 
its  purity. 

Pagan  sculpture  was  beautiful  indeed — beautiful  because  of  its 
proportion,  its  grace  and  delicacy  ;  but  that  secret  beauty  which 
speaks  to  the  soul  was  unknown ;  it  seemed  to  lie  dormant  in  the 
beautiful  but  soulless  forms,  as  it  was  in  the  illumined  souls.  The 
Pagan  sculptor  has  not  even  tasted  the  living  waters  of  faith  and 
love  at  the  ever-flowing  fountains  of  our  religion.  Pagan  art  was 
the  work  of  the  imagination,  Christian  art  of  the  soul.  Gifted  in- 
deed, was  the  hand  of  Phidias  that  sculptured  the  Olympian  Jupiter, 
but  were  we  to  compare  it  with  the  Moses  of  Michael  Angelo,  we 
would  find  one  lifeless  and  cold,  the  latter  alive  and  animated  by 
the  breath  of  religious  inspiration.  In  viewing  one  we  can  never 
forget  that  it  is  marble;  in  gazing  upon  the  latter  it  is  almost  im- 
possible to  realize  that  it  is  merely  stone,  for  a  soul  seems  to  have 
been  imparted  to  the  lifeless  clay.  "  There  is  something  infinite  in 
that  countenance.  The  sadness  which  steals  over  the  face  of  Moses 
is  the  same  deep  sadness  which  clouded  the  countenance  of  Michael 
Angelo  himself" — the  sadness  of  a  great  soul  that  realized  in  some 
degree  the  awful  chasm  between  God,  in  His  infinite  holiness,  and 
the  sons  of  men,  in  their  pettiness  and  folly — an  indefinable  melan- 
choly and  veneration  which  sought  no  model  and  has  found  no 
rival. 


ART   r.\   THE   SERVICE   OF  RELIGION  87 

It  was  religion  that  inspired  the  Gates  of  Ghiberti  "  fit  to  be 
the  gates  of  Paradise  " — the  Campanile  of  Giotto,  so  delicate  and 
fairy- like  that  it  looks  as  if  "it  should  be  kept  under  a  glass  case." 

It  was  religion  that  guided  the  chisel  of  the  sculptor,  as  he 
peopled  with  marbled  saints  every  nook,  portal  and  spire  of  the 
vast  Gothic  Cathedral,  until,  like  some  holy  multitude  crowning 
some  fair  mountain  in  heaven,  they  seemed  indeed  a  celestial  con- 
course petrified  in  adoration.  When  Architecture  had  done  its 
work,  Sculpture  came  in  to  throw  a  veil  of  beauty  over  the  pride 
of  the  architect's  imagination.  From  base  to  finial  was  added  vari- 
ation upon  variation  of  delicate  stone  tracery;  fine  embroidery  was 
tossed  and  strewed  from  pillar  to  vault,  and  niches  were  filled  with 
countless  angels  and  saints.  Thus  in  the  service  of  Religion, 
Sculpture  and  Architecture  ever  worked  in  harmony. 


•JK- 


PAINTING. 

Painting,  likewise,  asks  to  be  received  into  the  temple  of  Re- 
ligion. Within  the  Painter's  soul  Religion  imprints  her  glorious 
ideal,  and,  guiding  his  brush  across  the  canvas,  she  aids  him  to 
reproduce  this  ideal.  All  nature,  physical  and  spiritual,  yields  to 
the  sway  of  Painting;  from  earth  to  Heaven  she  wings  her  flight, 
portraying  all  between. 

But  the  painting  of  Paganism  encompassed  a  far  smaller 
sphere,  for  it  confined  itself  to  the  material;  above  this  it  could 
not  ascend,  for  the  artist  expressed  no  higher  inspiration  than  that 
afforded  by  his  imagination,  a  purely  organic  faculty.  Yes,  Reli- 
gion has  imparted  to  Painting  its  fire,  its  soul,  and  within  her 
hallowed  sanctuary  have  artists  executed  the  world's  masterpieces. 

See  how  nobly  Religion  has  employed  this  art.  It  is  the 
language  of  the  church.  There  hung  with  pictures  it  is  an  open 
book,  from  which  even  the  ignorant  may  learn.  We  need  not 


88  SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

turn  its  pages,  but  only  gaze  and  read  in  colors  the  life  pictured 
there. 

"  Christian  painting  began  in  the  Catacombs.  In  the  rude 
pictures  of  that  subterranean  world  we  find  the  chief  doctrines  of 
Religion  represented  under  forms  the  most  touching.  Painting 
there  represents  the  Phoenix  rising  from  its  ashes,  emblem  of  the 
immortality  of  the  soul  and  the  resurrection  of  the  body ;  the  good 
shepherd  bearing  upon  his  shoulders  the  lost  sheep,  which  teaches 
with  touching  simplicity  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  Our  Lord's 
parables;  the  three  youths  in  the  fiery  furnace,  signifying  the 
Providence  of  God  for  those  who  fear  and  love  him ;  Pharaoh  and 
hosts  engulfed  in  the  Red  Sea,  proclaiming  to  the  faithtul  that  God 
is  the  avenger  of  those  who  put  their  trust  in  Him." 

St.  Basil  declares  that  painters  accomplish  as  much  by  their 
pictures  as  orators  by  their  eloquence.  Indeed,  the  divinity  of 
Christ  is  as  manifest  in  the  "  Transfiguration  "  of  Raphael  as  in 
the  famous  sermon  of  Massillon.  His  sufferings  on  Mount  Calvary 
are  as  feelingly  portrayed  on  the  canvas  of  Rubens  as  in  the  un- 
equalled discourse  of  Bourdaloue.  No  one  can  look  upon  the  u  Last 
Supper "  by  Leonardo  de  Vinci  without  being  inspired  with  a 
sublime  conception  of  that  holiest  event. 

Thus  the  most  renowned  works  of  the  great  masters  were  ever 
inspired  by  Religion — the  delicate  cherubini  of  Angelico,  the  As- 
sumption of  Titian,  the  marvelous  improvisations  of  Tintoretto. 
To  it  Correggio  devoted  his  Cupolas,  with  all  their  grace  and  chiar- 
oscuro. Therein  Domenichino  found  his  "  Last  Communion  of  St. 
Jerome,"  the  second  painting  in  the  world.  The  Christ  of  Carlo 
Dolce  and  the  Madonnas  of  Sassoferrato  and  Murillo  are  in  every 
household.  From  Religion,  Raphael,  that  prince  of  painters,  drew 
the  epics  which  compose  the  Vatican  galleries.  Not  only  were 
his  first  essays  works  of  faith,  but  also  those  which  he  wrought  in 
his  zenith,  such  as,  "  The  Dispute  of  the  Holy  Sacrament,"  "  Heli- 
odorus,"  and  the  "  Miracle  of  Bolsena."  When  he  preferred  to  fol- 
low only  his  imagination,  he  strayed  away  as  in  the  commissions 


ART  IN   THE  SERVICE   OF  RELIGION.  89 

for  the  story  of  Psyche;  but  later  on  he  turned  himself  to  the  grand 
"Transfiguration"  from  the  midst  of  which  he  passed  to  behold 
it  in  heaven. 

And  Michael  Angelo?  I  can  never  cease  wondering  how  in 
the  Sistine  Chapel  he  has  portrayed  the  two  extreme  points  of  the 
life  of  the  human  race — the  Creation  and  the  Last  Judgment. 


Music. 

One  step  higher  in  the  scale  of  the  fine  arts,  and  the  mingled 
symphony  of  color,  light,  and  shade,  bursts  into  harmony  of 
sound.  Music  is  the  voice  of  angels  speaking  to  our  souls.  It  is 
the  voice  of  some  strayed  spirit  exiled  from  Heaven  and  doomed  to 
earth  to  teach  man  to  love  and  to  hope.  Wandering  and  telling 
of  its  celestial  home,  it  goes  pouring  its  soul  in  sounds  that  still 
retain  the  heavenly  echoes.  Music  by  its  nature  tends  heavenward; 
we  can  almost  see  those  high  silvery  notes  stream  upward  through 
the  air  and  pierce  the  blue  sky;  then  when  we  no  longer  hear  the 
strain,  it  has  not  died  away,  but  is  far  beyond  on  its  way  to 
Heaven. 

The  ancients  were  wont  to  say  that  he  who  cultivates  music 
imitates  the  divinity,  and  St.  Augustine  tells  us  that  it  was  the 
sweet  sound  of  psalmody  that  made  the  lives  of  the  monks  of  old 
so  beautiful  and  so  harmonious. 

God  is  eternal  harmony,  and  the  works  of  His  hand  are  har- 
monious, and  His  great  precept  to  man  is  that  they  live  in  har- 
mony. Did  not  Christ  come  into  the  world  amid  the  choral  songs 
of  the  angels?  We  can  never  banish  music  from  His  church;  it 
seems  to  enter  there  like  some  gentle  spirit,  whispering  the  peace 
of  another  world  into  our  souls,  next  bearing  them  away  on  its 
quivering  strains  to  the  throne  of  the  Infinite. 

Whoever  has  enjoyed  the  rare  privilege  of  being  present  in 
the  Sistine  chapel  during  the  Holy  Week  when  the  Miserere  is 


90  SILVER   JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

sung,  has  felt  the  immense  power  of  religious  music.  Do  you 
know  of  aught  more  wonderful  than  the  masses  of  Palestrina,  the 
"  Stabat  "  of  Rossini,  the  "  Crucifixus  "  of  Bellini?  As  music  de- 
velops religious  sentiment,  so  Religion  gives  to  music  its  highest 
themes.  To  her  Haydn,  Mozart,  and  Beethoven,  owe  their  divinest 
inspirations. 

This  age  of  materialism  can  give  but  little  to  the  other  arts 
whose  inspiration  is  faith;  but  music  brushes  away  the  dust  of 
everyday  life  and  frees  our  souls  for  at  least  a  few  moments,  from 
the  sordid  cares  that  disturb  it.  It  lifts  our  hearts  to  God,  re- 
minding us  that  we  will  one  day  behold  a  vision  of  beauty  and 
hear  a  Celestial  music,  such  as  eye  hath  not  seen,  and  ear  hath  not 
heard. 


POETRY. 

And  now  we  have  come  to  the  last  and  the  finest  of  all  the  fine 
arts  —  to  Poetry,  the  outpouring  of  an  inspired  soul.  Mighty  is  the 
soul  of  the  architect  and  the  sculptor,  beautiful  and  sensitive  is  that 
of  the  painter  and  the  musician,  but  the  soul  of  the  Poet  far  sur-' 
passes  them  all.  In  one  line  he  erects  a  temple  so  grand  that  well 
might  he  exclaim  with  Justinian  :  "  I  have  surpassed  thee  Solo- 
mon !  "  He  sees  beauties  in  nature  of  which  even  Claude  Lorraine 
formed  no  conception.  Poetry  and  music  are  one;  music  is  poetry 
of  sound,  and  poetry  is  music  in  word.  But  poetry,  though  less 
sympathetic,  has  a  stronger,  more  definite  power  than  music.  It 
appeals  more  to  the  mind  than  to  the  feelings.  It  is  the  music  of 
the  intellect,  a  music  played  upon  the  harp-strings  of  thought, 
whose  notes  are  beauty,  harmony  and  truth,  whose  ringing  strain 
.is  God.  And  what  sublime  music  that  word  "  God  "  is  to  the  mind! 
In  its  melody  it  could  dwell  forever.  It  could  contemplate  for  a 
life-time  that  most  poetic  of  words,  without  exhausting  the  thought, 
the  knowledge,  the  power,  the  immensity,  the  sublimity  there  con- 
tained. It  is  from  that  word  that  Poetry  springs;  she  claims  a 


ART  IN  THE  SERVICE   OF  RELIGION  91 

divine  origin,  and  like  a  true  child  ever  tends  to  it.  In  seeking 
God,  Poetry  winged  her  flight  to  the  skies,  and  when  in  that  quest 
she  naturally  soared  farthest  from  earth  and  nearest  to  Heaven. 
Do  you  wonder  now  that  Poetry,  too,  wishes  to  find  a  place  in  the 
temple  of  Religion? 

In  the  world  of  books  is  there  one  grander,  more  sublimely 
poetic  than  that  book  dedicated  by  the  inspiration  of  God — the 
Bible?  There,  where  God  is  apprehended  in  all  His  majesty,  are 
heard  the  voices  of  David,  the  poet  king,. of  Jeremiah,  and  of  Isaiah, 
ringing  with  sublimest  strains  of  prophecy,  and  pouring  forth  in 
poetry  the  messages  of  God  upon  a  listening  world. 

Has  even  Poetic  Greece  in  her  glory  give  us  poems  half  so  grand 
as  those  of  the  Hebrew  Scriptures?  What  other  muse  than  Religion 
inspired  the  triumphal  hymns  of  Miriam  and  Deborah!  Of  what 
else  did  Job  write  in  that  bold  imagery,  that  vividness  of  expres- 
sion, combined  with  master-touches  of  dramatic  art,  that  stamps 
this  poem  as  the  greatest  in  Oriental  literature?  But  though  the 
spirit  of  song  has  fled  from  Jerusalem  it  has  not  departed  from  the 
praise  of  God.  Generation  after  generation  has  taken  up  the  refrain, 
and  through  the  misty  ages  of  the  past — aye,  even  through  the 
dimmer  ages  of  the  future,  do  I  hear  the  hymn  rising  in  thanks-, 
giving  to  God. 

And  the  Angel  of  the  Schools  deserved  from  the  lips  of  Christ 
himself  these  words:  "  Thou  hast  well  written  of  me." 

Did  not  the  privileged  mind  of  Dante  and  Milton  also  receive 
their  highest  inspiration  from  Religion? 

And  how  often  in  the  silence  of  his  heart  and  when  alone  with 
his  own  great  thoughts  did  not  the  "  Poet  Priest ''  of  the  South 
listen  to  her  holy  promptings." 

Before  Religion  lent  her  muse  to  Poetry,  the  art  lay  fettered, 
except,  indeed,  among  God's  chosen  people.  Sappho  sang  of  love 
to  the  sounds  of  her  Grecian  lyre  ;  Alceus,  of  war,  infusing  patriot- 
ism in  the  breast  of  his  listeners  ;  but  the  Christian  poet  chants 
sublimest  melodies  to  the  Creator  of  song,  and  lays  his  choicest 


92  SILVER   JUBILEE   MEMORIAL 

gems  at  the  feet  of  Religion.  It  was  she  who  whispered  to  him 
his  theme,  and  he  told  her  his  gratitude  when  he  placed  on  her 
brow  his  nobly  earned  laurels. 


ELOQUENCE. 

Climbing  the  heights  of  Parnassus  let  us  greet  on  our  way  the 
golden-tongued  Polyhymnia.  Of  her  power  who  can  relate  the 
wonders?  She  sways  the  multitude  as  the  mighty  wind  sweeps 
over  the  face  of  the  waters,  as  it  gives  a  voice  to  the  leaves  of  the 
forest,  or  as  it  commands  homage  from  the  undulating  prairie. 

True  eloquence  is  always  artistic,  and  we  must  concede  that  it 
holds  a  high  place  in  the  Church  of  Christ.  The  Master  blessed 
eloquence  and  bade  it  convert  the  world  in  the  memorable  words: 
"  Go  ye  therefore  and  teach  all  nations."  Eloquence  must  be 
spoken;  take  from  it  its  voice  and  you  take  from  it  its  soul.  It  is 
the  cry  of  an  impassioned  nature,  in  which  love,  faith  and  deep- 
abiding  conviction  are  enthroned. 

In  all  ages  eloquence  has  played  a  powerful  part  in  the  affairs 
of  man.  Demosthenes  did  more  to  stay  the  fall  of  Greece  than 
all  the  Athenian  valor  or  Spartan  courage.  "  Let  us  match  against 
Philip!"  was  the  unanimous  response  of  the  people  of  Athens,  after 
listening  to  one  of  Demosthenes'  eloquent  harangues.  Cicero's 
patriotic  eloquence  saved  Rome  from  the  conspiracy  of  Cataline. 
And  what  has  this  great  gift  not  accomplished  in  the  arena  of 
modern  politics  and  for  the  public  weal?  What  if  Grattan,  Cur- 
ran,  O'Connell  had  never  raised  their  voices  in  behalf  of  the  down- 
stricken  Ireland!  What  if  Pitt  had  not  poured  forth  the  eloquent 
and  honest  convictions  of  his  mind  in  behalf  of  American  inde- 
pendence! What  of  our  sympathy  for  Ireland's  Home  Rule,  had 
not  the  Grand  Old  Man  stunned  the  world  with  his  telling  oratory  ! 

If  human  eloquence  can  so  move  the  multitudes,  what  a  power 
must  it  not  have,  if  we  add  thereto  the  purity  and  holiness  where- 


ART  IN  THE  SERVICE  OF  RELIGION  93 

with  it  is  accompanied  when  working  in  the  service  of  Religion! 
The  church  has  given  to  the  world  the  noblest  examples  of  elo- 
quence. With  pride  she  points  to  the  names  of  Augustine,  Ambrose 
and  Chrysostom — Augustine  whose  mighty  wisdom  confounded  the 
heretic — Ambrose  profoundly  and  logically  eloquent  held  even  the 
great  Augustine  spell-bound — Chrysostom  of  golden  eloquence,  con- 
quering millions  of  hearts. 

Savonarola  with  his  crucifix  held  at  bay  the  army  of  Charles 
VIII.  And  what  jewels  were  too  precious  for  the  grand  dames  of 
Florence  to  sacrifice  at  the  sound  of  his  inspiring  voice! 

When  luxury  reigned  supreme  at  the  French  Court,  the  stern, 
grave  oration  of  Bourdaloue  and  of  Massillon  caused  the  wicked 
king  and  courtiers  to  tremble.  Boussuet's  masterpieces,  grand  and 
majestic,  poured  forth  midst  the  shadows  of  the  tomb,  fell  upon  the 
ear  of  the  same  pleasure  loving  Court,  sad  and  solemn  as  the  death- 
knell  warning  it  of  the  final  dissolution. 

Aesthetic  France  returns  to  her  God  at  the  feet  of  the  great  or- 
ators of  Notre  Dame — Lacordaire,  De  Ravignan,  Didon  and  Mon- 
sabre. 

And  in  our  own  Catholic  hierarchy  are  there  not  names  that 
shine  like  stars  in  the  firmament  of  the  church — voices  which  are 
the  outpourings  of  faith  and  love  and  holy  ambition  that  the  world 
may  become  better  and  purer? 

If  the  East  is  proud  of  her  Bossuet,  is  not  our  archieopiscopal 
city  equally  gifted? 

Oh,  for  the  power  to  sway  the  soul,  to  move  it  in  the  paths  of 
righteousness,  to  raise  it  from  the  mire  of  sin  into  the  high,  pure 
regions  of  virtue.  Oh!  for  a  soul  on  fire  to  enkindle  a  flame  in  the 
hearts  of  others! 

••O^O>- 

CONCLUSION. 

Thus  every  art,  Architecture,  Sculpture,  Painting,  Music, 
Poetry  and  Eloquence,  has  felt  and  known  the  sweet  inspiration  of 


94 


SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 


Religion,  and  responded  to  her  in  purer  tones  than  it  had  ever 
known  before.  She  has  substituted  for  the  ideal  myths  of  Pagan 
days  the  purer  vision  that  Heaven  alone  can  inspire;  and  instead 
of  restricting  and  degrading,  as  some  have  ignorantly  asserted,  she 
has  elevated  and  purified  every  branch  of  art.  Christian  art  could 
not  be  more  perfect  than  it  is— blending  all  that  is  fairest  and 
grandest  in  nature,  with  all  that  is  purest  and  noblest  in  Religion. 


Class  of  '92 


;£££*.       <Jk&« 


Only  a  glance  from  stranger  eye  ; 
A  low,  soft  tone  as  we  pass  by — 
A  curve  perhaps,  an  instant  taken 
By  lips  that  we  to  none  can  liken— 

Resemblance,  then,  with  instant  touch, 
Gives  to  us  thoughts  and  visions  such 
As  fill  our  souls  for  one  brief  space, 
While  the  heart  and  its  love  are  face  to  face. 

For  other  eyes  beam  then  on  us,  % 

Too  well  are  known  the  tones  heard  thus, 
And  lips  that  wore  that  curve  of  old, 
Words  of  sweet  love  to  us  have  told. 

K.  K. 


Hath  time  dealt  hardly  with  thee, 
Child  of  sorrow,  child  of  tears ; 

Is  the  weight  of  many  burdens 
Added  to  the  weight  of  years? 

Have  the  dreams  of  school  days  faded, 
Leaving  only  memory  vain ; 

All  the  hope  and  high  ambition 
Given  place  to  weary  pain? 

Have  the  weeks  and  months  in  passing 
Left  but  heart  throbs  in  their  flight, 

Has  the  dread  death  angel  entered 
Taking  all  that  made  life  bright? 

Has  the  world  been  harsh  and  cruel 
In  its  coldness  and  disdain, 

Going  on  its  way  in  gladness, 
Leaving  to  thy  heart  the  pain? 

Have  thy  shoulders  felt  the  burden 
Of  the  cross  these  seven  years? 

What  thy  answer  to  my  queries, 
What,  my 'child,  tears,  only  tears! 

95 


96  SILVER    JUBILEE   MEMORIAL 

In  the  language  of  the  Poet, 

"  Tears,  the  life-blood  of  the  heart," 

Silence  only  tells  the  story, 

Words  but  feebly  do  their  part. 

Know  you  not  that  all  these  crosses, 

Are  but  shadows  of  the  sun, 
Whose  bright  ray  will  fall  upon  us, 

When  the  long  day's  work  is  done. 

Sink  not  by  the  wayside  sadly. 

Learn  the  lesson  sorrow  brings, 
Raise  thy  heart  from  earthly  honors 

Thou  wert  made  for  better  things. 

Let  thy  girlhood's  high  ambition 

To  a  nobler  zeal  give  place; 
All  for  love,  and  God's  dear  glory, 

Till  we  see  Him  face  to  face. 

"  Whom  He  loves,  He  chastens  sorely," 

'T  is  enough  for  us  to  know, 
And  the  word  gives  sweetest  comfort, 
In  our  pilgrimage  of  woe. 

Courage,  for  the  cross  that  presses, 

Cometh  to  thee  from  above, 
And  thy  Father  in  His  wisdom, 

Sendeth  all  these  things  in  love. 

LAURA  J.  BRENHAM. 
Convent  of  the  Holy  Names,  San  Francisco,  CaL 


NIGHT  is  the  dream  hour  of  the  day. — Kate  Keaney. 


Life's  slowly  rising  sun  purples  the  eastern  sky  and  tinges  with 
a  rosy  glow  the  fleecy,  floating  clouds.  The  air  is  alive  with  the 
joyous  twittering  of  the  feathered  choir;  the  very  brooklets  with 
their  sweet  babble,  seem  to  laugh  and  sing,  as  the  sparkling  waters 
ripple  along  their  pebbly  beds. 

Along  the  broad  and  dewy  path  dances  the  laughing  child. 
Upon  her  soft,  dimpled  cheeks  the  tints  of  morning  glow.  Tripping 
along  she  sings  sweet  snatches  of  some  bright  lay.  Almost  akin  to 
the  chirping  birds  is  the  blithesomeness  of  her  innocent  heart;  her 
light  footsteps  press  the  dainty  flowers  strewn  across  her  sunny  way. 

I  approach  the  laughing  little  one  with  slow  and  weary  tread, 
and  breaking  in  upon  her  happy  pastime,  I  cry,  "  Sweet  child,  when 
is  the  time  to  die?"  The  dewy,  bright  eyes  are  raised  to  mine  in 
startled  wonder,  she  seems  not  to  know  my  meaning.  "  To  die, 
little  one,"  I  repeat.  "Is  this,  do  you  think,  the  time  to  die?" 
Then  her  silvery  laugh  rings  out  wild  and  free  upon  the  morning 
air:  "  Not  yet,  not  yet!  ''  she  cries,  and  has  bounded  on  again. 

The  tints  of  morning  have  grown  more  vivid;  Aurora  has  left  a 
kiss  upon  the  maiden's  cheek;  her  soft  eyes  shine  with  a  loving  light; 
the  red  lips  murmur  some  loved  one's  name,  to  whose  memory  she 
is  most  dear.  With  the  whispered  words  a  flush  dyes  to  crimson 
her  pure  white  brow.  In  answer  to  my  solemn  question  I  seem  to 
hear  her  spirit  sigh,  as  I  listen  to  the  words  she  breathes:  "  Savior! 
Oh,  not  now!  not  now!  Youth  is  no  time  to  die! " 

The  soughing  wind  fans  my  fevered  cheek,  and  on  its  wings  are 
borne  to  me  faint  echoes  of  some  sweet  lullaby.  In  a  little  haven 

7  97 


98  SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

by  the  wayside,  sheltered  from  the  storms  which  ofttimes  sweep  in 
all  their  fury  along  this  path  of  life,  sits  a  young  mother  softly 
crowing  to  her  babe.  All  her  loving  heart  shines  in  her  eyes  as 
they  rest  fondly  upon  the  tiny,  sleeping  face  of  her  cherished  first- 
born. It  is  with  a  strange  reluctance  that  I  put  to  her  the  oft- 
repeated  question — "When  is  the  time  to  die?"  She  lifts  her 
eyes,  filled  with  love  not  unmixed  with  agony,  to  my  face  as  she 
answers — "Surely,  not  now!  God  will  not  call  me  yet,  I  have  this 
little  life  to  guide,  so  that  in  the  end  there  may  be  added  yet  another 
soul  to  the  numberless  saints  above."  Ah,  sweet,  unselfish  mothers, 
how  you  redeem  this  world !  Surely  yours  is  such  a  noble  cause, 
God  will  spare  you  to  fulfill  your  task. 

The  bright  noonday  sun  is  shining  steadily  in  the  far,  still  zenith, 
whilst  along  the  path  with  joyous  steps  and  earnest  mien,  quickly 
passes  a  young  man  in  all  the  fire  and  zeal  of  his  prime.  In  answer 
to  the  all-absorbing  question,  he  faces  me  with  a  look  of  scorn  in  his 
eyes.  "  Time  to  die?  "  he  says,  while  his  lip  curls  in  disdain.  "  Ask 
that  not  of  me.  I  have  the  greater  part  of  my  life  yet  to  live! 
Speak  not  to  me  of  death,  go  to  age,  he  can  tell  you  the  time  to  die! " 

"Ah,  thoughtless  one!"  say  I,  as  I  turn  away  unsatisfied.  The 
dusk  of  evening  slowly  settles  over  hill  and  valley.  The  parting 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  gild  the  distant  hills  with  a  mellow  splendor ; 
the  tall  trees  cast  long  shadows  aslant  the  path.  In  the  distance, 
with  his  face  toward  the  fading  beams,  wearily  plods  an  aged  man. 
The  tender  after-glow  touches  his  flowing  locks  with  a  golden  glint 
as  he  leans  011  his  staff  for  a  moment's  rest.  He  is  still  standing 
thus  as  I  draw  near.  "  Tired  one,"  say  I,  •''  surely  you  will  tell  me 
now  is  the  time  to  die."  He  stands  silent  for  a  moment  more,  then 
all  the  ashes  of  his  dead  dreams  and  hopes  seem  to  rekindle  in  his 
brightening  face;  clasping  his  trembling  hands,  he  cries,  "No,  no, 
I  cannot  die.  I  love  life  too  well  to  leave  it  yet."  Poor  deluded 
one!  the  words  have  scarcely  left  the  withered  lips,  when  the  hand 
of  God  silently  touches  him;  a  groan,  a  gasp,  and  he  lies  still  and 
cold  in  the  twilight. 


WHEN  IS   THE   TIME   TO  DIE 


99 


Filled  with  sad  foreboding,  I  continue  on  my  way.  Forgetful 
of  all  outward  things,  I  speak  my  thoughts  aloud.  "  Ah  me!  "I 
sigh,  "  why  are  we  all  so  unwilling  to  die?  "  The  sound  of  my  own 
voice  in  the  stillness  startles  me  out  of  my  despondency,  and  I 
become  aware  of  a  presence  near  me.  Looking  up,  I  see  beside  me 
one  with  a  serene  countenance  and  kindly,  patient  eyes  which 
bespeak  the  calmness  of  the  heart  within.  In  gentle  accents  he 
asks  if  I  am  a- weary.  What  is  that  light  which  shines  in  his  face? 
It  is  as  if  a  lamp  were  gleaming  with  steady  light  through  the  win- 
dows of  his  soul.  A  small,  bright  hope  warms  my  chilled  heart 
once  more.  "  Thou  of  the  serene  countenance,"  I  softly  ask,  "  tell 
me  when  is  the  time  to  die?"  A  soft  smile  passes  over  his  lips 
and  eyes,  as  if  an  angel  noiselessly  floating  by,  had  brushed  his 
face  with  the  shadow  of  its  wings.  He  lifts  his  eyes  to  the  pur- 
pling west;  the  mellow  light  seems  to  throw  a  golden  halo  about  his 
brow  as  the  smiling  lips  answer:  "  My  Savior's  time  is  mine!  " 

ZOE  CHADWICK. 

Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 


NATURE  is  the  poem  of  God's  love  ;  the  stanzas  are  sound,  color 
and  motion. — K.  K. 


In  the  midst  of  the  Garden  of  Eden, 
By  the  hands  of  the  bright  Angels  built 

Rose  a  temple  of  radiant  splendor, 

Made  of  jewels,  and  sunshine,  and  gilt. 

And  the  walls  were  all  studded  with  emeralds, 
In  the  dome,  gleamed  the  ruby's  rich  hue; 

O'er  the  cloisters  of  Peace  fell  the  soft  light, 
Through  the  windows  of  topaz  and  blue. 

'T  was  a  wonderful  structure!    this  temple, 
As  it  gleamed  in  the  day's  glaring  light; 

As  an  emblem  of  "  Peace  " — and  no  Sin — 
It  shone  like  a  star  in  the  night. 

When  the  sun  o'er  that  Valley  of  Eden, 
In  the  West,  at  the  close  of  each  day, 

Sank  from  sight, — hand  in  hand  our  first  parents 
To  this  Temple,  came  ever — to  pray — 

And  when  finished-  their  lowly  orisons, 

They  would  walk  through  the  bright  temple  hall, 

Never  dreaming  in  their  sinless  beauty, 
That  so  soon,  they  would  both  of  them  fall. 

Adam  fell!     So  the"t)ld  story  tells  us. 

Then — this  glorious  temple  of  worth 
Had  its  walls  rent  in  millions  of  pieces, 

Which  were  scattered  broadcast,  o'er  the  earth. 
100 


.l.V  ARAB   TRADITION  101 

And  thus  we,  from  that  day  have  been  sinful 
Yet  we  think  that  with  time,  and  with  care, 

We  may  gather  a  few  of  those  jewels, 
That  were  torn  from  that  temple  so  fair. 


All  ye  lovers  of  gold  and  of  Mammon, 

Who  have  thought  that  these  jewels  so  bright 

Are  for  naught  but  your  show,  and  your  pleasure, 
Or  to  charm  you  and  dazzle  your  sight — 

Let  me  tell  you  a  secret,  I  know  of — 

That  these  jewels  so  rich  and  so  rare, 
Are  but  tokens  left  here  to  remind  us, 

We've  a  temple  in  Eden  somewhere. 

ADELAIDE  C.  SP AFFORD. 

Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cat. 


A  hidden   act   of  charity  sends   an  irresistible  appeal  to  the 
Celestial  Court  of  Benevolence. — K.  K. 


iod'5 


Like  a  glorious  Te  Deum  of  thanksgiving  rose  the  hymn  of 
Nature  to  the  throne  of  God;  rose  in  strains  of  divine  melody  on 
that  first  day,  when  all  things  were  made  good,  and  a  newly  created 
world  stretched  itself  out,  decked  in  its  rich  robes  so  fresh  from  the 
Maker's  hand.  A  perfection  of  beauty  existed  in  all  things,  from 
the  profusion  of  grasses  and  gay  flowers  that  carpeted  the  fertile 
soil,  to  the  towering  mountains,  or  the  billows  of  the  main.  And 
while  loveliness  smiled  its  thanks  on  the  face  of  all  created  things, 
a  thousand  sounds  blended  into  one  harmonious  whole,  and  ascended 
to  Heaven.  On  they  chimed,  and  still  they  chimed  in  triumphant 
chorus,  ever  praising,  ever  glorifying  the  Almighty  Power  that 
called  them  into  being. 

For  if  God's  name  is  imprinted  in  tints  of  indelible  beauty  on 
all  the  works  of  the  universe,  then  of  whom  do  their  voices  sing, 
and  whose  music  could  they  call  it,  if  not  God's  ?  All  riound,  every 
ripple  and  wavelet  of  air,  every  tiny  vibration,  is  God's  music. 

The  universe  is  filled  with  His  voice.  To  each  of  His  creations 
He  has  given  one  of  His  divine  notes;  and  they  repeat  it  so  often 
that,  could  we  but  listen  as  the  angels  do,  we  would  hear  the  music 
of  His  name  in  the  rushing  torrent,  and  in  the  peaceful  lake,  in  the 
mournful  winds  and  in  the  whispering  breeze. 

But  hush!  Everything  is  so  still  that  the  Earth  seems  to  be 
holding  her  breath  to  hear  some  far  distant  sound.  Ah!  'tis  the 
twinkling  of  the  little  star-lanterns  as  they  swing  to  and  fro  in  the 
sapphire  tent,  which  they  almost  hide  beneath  the  maze  of  their 
beauty. 

102 


GOD'S  MUSIC  103 

We  hear  God's  music  also,  when  the  air  is  filled  with  the 
rejoicing  hum  of  insects,  that  are  drinking  in  the  sunbeams,  and 
blowing  their  tiny  horns,  as  they  weave  and  unweave  their  mystic 
dance. 

Even  the  gentle  rustle  of  the  leaves,  when  caressed  by  the  soft 
breezes,  and  the  sweet  notes  caroled  from  hearts  hidden  beneath 
pretty  feathered  coats,  are  songs  of  thanksgiving  to  be  wafted  to 
Heaven. 

The  ocean,  the  grand  and  solemn  deep!  How  musical  is  its 
calm  and  steady  roar;  or  again,  how  harmonious  the  sounds  of  its 
restless  and  dashing  billows!  List  also  to  the  raging  voice  of  the 
cataract,  as  in  awful  fury  it  leaps  over  rocky  cliffs,  while  in  its 
onward  rush  the  waters  writhe  and  foam.  How  weird,  how  grand 
the  song  of  the  mighty  stream!  No  power  of  man  ever  produced 
such  sounds  as  these.  Onward  rides  the  meadow  brook,  its  laughing 
waters  telling  of  the  harmony  of  nature,  as  it  vies  with  the  inmates 
of  the  forest  in  singing  its  sweet  "  Hallelujah."  Ocean,  cataract, 
stream  and  brook,  each  fills  the  air  with  its  music;  and  now  come 
their  offspring,  the  rain  drops.  They  left  us  unawares,  these  fail- 
daughters  o£  the  Sea;  but  now  we  hear  their  musical  sounds  as  one 
.by  o,ne  they  repent  ingly  return  to  the  arms  of  their  common  mother. 

Yes;  Nature  is  all  harmony,  for  it  is  all  love.  The  songs  of 
the  beautiful  water,  and  the  winds,  with  their  minor  chords  mingle 
in  sweetest  tones. 

Joyfully  these  psalms  of  Earth  rise  to  the  Eternal  Throne,  and 
He  who  sits  thereon,  though  listening  to  the  songs  of  the  angels  can 
still  bend  towards  Earth;  can  still  receive  these  humble  prayers. 

But  0  my  God,  there  are  other  strains  that  rise  to  Heaven, 
still  more  delightful  to  thine  ear!  They  come  from  the  heart  of 
man;  they  are  the  broken  prayers  he  is  ever  breathing  to  his  Maker; 
and  these  strains,  up-borne  on  angel  wings,  soar  above  the  things  of 
Earth  and  enter  Heaven.  Such  heavenly  music  they  are  that  we 
almost  think  the  angels  must  have  ceased  playing  on  their  harps 
and  let  their  own  melodv  waft  to  us  from  above. 


104  SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

This  is  the  music  that  the  Master  loves  best,  whether  it  [be  the 
strong,  reliant  prayer  of  man,  the  patient  appeal  of  woman,  or  the 
dulcet  lisping  of  the  infant.  Rising  from  the  earnest  and  loving 
heart,  it  finds  an  answer  in  God's  own  great  Heart. 

Class  of  '91 


Convent  of  Out  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 


]Y[y  Sister  ? 


The  golden  beams  of  the  morning  sun 
Like  gladsome  creatures  on  fairy  wing 

Lit  up  with  a  halo  the  face  of  one 

Who  knelt  in  rapture  before  her  King. 

I  gazed  ;  my  thoughts  like  a  meteor  sped  * 

To  scenes  of  my  youth  on  a  distant  shore, 

Where  a  sister's  love  had  a  brightness  shed 
O'er  my  budding  life  in  the  days  of  yore. 

Ah  !  yes  ;  from  the  eyes  of  her  who  knelt, 

My  sister  looked  as  when  she  smiled 
With  all  the  love  that  a  sister  felt, 

On  me,  a  happy,  thoughtless  child. 

Again  can  I  see  my  sister's  look — 

Nor  call  it  Fancy's  ardent  glow — 
She  gazes,  she  speaks,  from  a  precious  book, 

As  she  was  wont  in  the  long  ago. 

VIGIL  AUS. 


# 


It  was  a  perfect  night.  Not  a  murmur  stirred  the  starlit  still- 
ness, and  the  pale  December  moon  shrouded  in  a  cold  embrace  the 
sleeping  vale  of  Bethlehem.  Upon  a  distant  height  rude  figures 
might  be  descried  stretched  upon  the  cold  earth  keeping  their  mid- 
night vigils.  Clad  in  coarse  garments  and  wearing  low  sandals, 
these  simple-minded  men  were  types  of  the  Judean  shepherd.  The 
hours  dragged  on  and  still  they  slept,  one  solitary  figure  only, 
pacing  the  mountain  side,  and  keeping  faithful  watch.  Suddenly, 
a  soft  light  fell  upon  the  heights,  slowly  and  gently,  like  a  loving 
benediction  it  closed  around  them,  awakening  the  sleeping  herds- 
men. They  were  not  terrified  —  they  were  awed.  The  crescent 
moon  had  dipped  her  silver  horn  a  full  hour  since  beneath  the 
western  horizon  —  the  stars  were  blotted  out  in  the  dazzling  bril- 
liancy. 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  speechless  surprise,  a  gentle  peace 
falling  upon  them,  as  in  breathless  wonder  they  waited  for  some 
new  revelation. 

At  length  a  voice  sweeter  than  music  broke  the  stillness,  say- 
ing: "  Fear  not,"  and  then  was  made  known  to  the  humble  shep- 
herds the  "  tidings  of  great  joy."  The  vision  vanished.  Far  up  in 
the  sky  they  heard  the  glad  refrain,  "  Gloria  in  Excelsis  Deo,"  and 
long  it  echoed  in  their  inmost  hearts.  When  the  golden  harmony 
had  "trembled  away  into  silence"  and  the  gray  dawn  was  just 
breaking  in  the  east,  they  arose  from  their  knees,  each  heart  be- 
neath the  rude  sheep-skin  mantles  yearning  to  see  the  new-born 

105 


106  SILVER   JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

King.     "  Venite  Adoremus ! "  they  exclaimed,  and  left   the  moun- 
tain side  for  the  manger. 

******** 

What  are  those  long  shadows  darkening  the  desert?  Three 
strangers,  seemingly  kings,  traverse  the  plain,  borne  'each  by  a 
huge  camel.  The  first  bears  the  unmistakable  physiognomy  of  a 
son  of  the  Nile,  his  dark  eyes  flashing  with  expectancy  and  hope, 
even  through  the  dimness  of  three  score  years;  there  is  in  their 
depths  an  undefmable  longing  and  yet  a  holy  calm.  The  second 
bears  the  stamp  of  Hindoo  parentage,  his  great  folded  turban  and 
white  linen  garments-confirm  what  his  features  attest.  In  the  third 
we  see  a  face  in  strong  contrast  with  its  companions — a  face  beauti- 
ful in  mold,  and  beautiful  in  the  expression  of  wonderful  sweetness 
and  faith.  The  features  are  pure  Grecian,  and  unstamped  by  age 
or  care. 

In  their  hearts  these  men  had  long  felt  a  yearning  for  God, 
and  when  the  star  of  Bethlehem  shed  its  pure  gleams  on  their 
souls  they  felt  an  assurance  that  their  longing  was  soon  to  be  sat- 
isfied. A  golden  chain  led  from  their  hearts  to  the  Savior's  feet; 
they  felt  it  irresistibly  attracting  them  nearer  and  yielding  to  its 
sweet  influence,  they  drew  nigh  unto  the  Crib.  How  gladly  they 
responded  to  the  "Venite"  that  echoed  deep  in  their  souls!  It 
was  like  a  bell  of  untold  sweetness  rung  by  angel  wardens.  The 
harmony  was  as  a  promise  of  peace  and  light  to  their  troubled 
hearts  groping  in  the  darkness. 

Let  us  stop  to  listen  for  a  moment,  and  through  the  vaults  of 
twenty  buried  centuries  we  may  hear  sweet  voices  chiming  "  Venite 
Adoremus,"  the  song  has  not  yet  died  away.  In  every  age,  in 
every  Christian  country  are  these  sweet  words  hallowed  and  sung. 
Every  year  as  the  Christian  festival  dawns,  the  Bethlehem  star 
of  faith  sheds  dazzling  lustre  on  each  loyal  heart,  as  it  once  did  on 
the  shepherds  of  Judea,  and  they,  too,  re-echo  u  Venite  Adoremus/' 

Ah!  if  we  would  always  gladly  respond  to  the  "Venite!" 
but,  alas,  too  often  we  close  our  obdurate  hearts  to  the  blessed 


VENITE  A  DO  REMUS  107 

entreaty,  and  worship  not  at  the  Crib  of  Him  who  came  to  seek 
and  to  save  sinners. 

"  Venite  Adoremus!"  in  how  many  care-burdened  souls  do 
these  words  find  a  responsive  chord,  which  vibrates  in  exquisite 
sensitiveness  to  the  awakening  touch  I  For  how  many  hearts  be- 
numbed with  pain  has  not  this  peaii  of  gladness  opened  the  flood- 
gates of  tears,  relieving  sorrow  and  pointing  out  a  new  and  higher 
motive  for  which  to  live  and  to  suffer. 

"  As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions,  as  long  as  life  has  woes," 

will  this  u  Venite  Adoremus ''  bear  the  same  sweet  meaning  as  it 
breathed  to  the  Judean  shepherds  on  the  heights  of  Bethlehem 
Christmas  night,  two  thousand  years  ago. 

LTJCILE  EDWARDS. 
Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 


There  are  lives  that  bless  and  are  blessed  where'er  they  go. 
They  are  like  fertilizing  streams  that  flow  through  the  arid  desert 
clothing  its  dreary  sands  with  a  mantle  of  softest  verdure  and  gem- 
ming it  with  starry  flowers. — Laura  Glenn. 

There  are  sunbeams  that  owe  their  light,  not  to  the  sun,  but  to 
some  golden  hearts  that  cast  their  fragrance  o'er  our  pathway. 
When  our  lives  seem  cold  and  dreary,  they  drive  away  the  gloom. 
A  word,  a  look,  a  smile  from  those  we  hold  dear,  brings  happiness 
to  many  a  weary  heart. 


it  the 

*• 


Just  as  Time  turns  to  bid  farewell  to  Summer, 
To  catch  the  last  perfume  she  breathes ; 

Snatching  stray  bits  of  her  radiance  and  color 
He  paints  gray  October's  sere  leaves. 

Thus  tenderly  leaving  a  seal  for  a  memory 

Of  beauty  we  would  not  forget. 
Blends  us  a  promise  in  Autumn's  own  colors 

Of  radiance  more  rare  for  us  yet. 

True  !  but  for  Thee  all  had  been  cold  and  dreary, 

Thou  hast  a  mysterious  chain, 
Which  links  the  beauties  of  ne'er  forgot  Summer, 

And  in  thy  gray  shadows  we  live  it  again. 

Just  at  Time's  Turning,  we  linger  a  moment, 
To  catch  the  last  breath  of  our  flowers. 

Take  a  long  look  into  our  fleeting  Summers, 
Where  Memory  and  Promise  are  ours. 

There,  in  the  meadows,  Forget-me-not  faces 
That  bloomed  in  the  sweet  olden  days, 

Lovingly  peep  into  ours,  and  are  smiling 
In  just  the  same  olden  ways. 

Then  "at  the  Turning"  the  birds  are  all  singing 
Sweet  snatches  of  song  we  once  knew. 

Looking  just  back  of  the  Clouds  of  October 
The  Gray  melts  away  into  Blue. 


AT  THE   TURNING  109 

Thus,  at  the  Turning  of  Summer  to  Autumn 

We  look  at  a  picture  of  Spring, 
So,  at  the  Turning  of  years  doth  our  Memory 

Sweet  pictures  of  childhood  then  bring. 

What  of  the  promise  that  comes  of  the  blending 

Of  Autumn's  deep  red  and  rich  gold? 
'Tis  of  a  Summer  where  never  is  fading 

Nor  Songs,  nor  its  faces  grow  old. 

For  into  its  meadows,  Time  never  may  trespass 

To  snatch  away  Beauty  and  Light 
All  the  day  long  we  may  dwell  in  the  Sunshine 

For  there — never  cometh  the  Night. 

Memorial  pictures  of  all  our  past  Summers, 

We  love  Thee  !  and  most  would  delay  : 
But  at  the  Turning  of  years  we're  reminded 

Of  Summer  : — Just  over  the  Way. 

And  as  our  years  grow  more  numbered 

They  draw  us,  so  gently  but  surely  away 
From  Memory's  Pictures  so  faded  and  misty 

To  one  that  is  brighter  than  they. 

Nearer  and  nearer  we  grow  to  that  Summer 

We  oft  hear  its  music,  it  seems; 
And  we  look  through  the  beautiful  blue  of  its  Heaven 

To  faces  of  light  in  our  dreams. 

Till  at  Life's  Turning,  we  pause  for  a  moment, 

Scarce  knowing  a  change  is  made 
Loving  and  trusting  we  turn, — and  awaken 

In  Summer  that  never  doth  fade. 

ADELAIDE  C.  SPAFFORD. 
Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 


How  strange  it  is  that  man  fails  to  see  in  the  sky,  that  ever 
broadens  above  him,  proofs  of  the  beneficent  love  of  God!  Is  it  not 
that  part  of  Nature  that  speaks  most  eloquently  to  his  soul,  that 
responds  best  to  his  heart's  noblest  thoughts  ?  It  is  a  book  con- 
stantly open  for  his  meditation  ;  yet,  page  after  page  is  turned, 
glory  after  glory  fades  unheeded.  But  let  an  angry  cloud  steal  over 
the  azure  of  the  heavens  and  shroud  from  his  gaze  the  genial  rays  of 
the  sun,  then  man  is  troubled.  Perhaps  it  will  mar  some  pleasure, 
blast  some  hope,  or  even  sway  the  tide  of  fortune  ;  his  mind  is  full 
of  thoughts  darker  than  the  overhanging  canopy.  Ah  !  fickle  man, 
who  but  an  hour  ago  allowed  to  pass  unadmired  the  glory  of  a  sun- 
set, now  watches  every  movement,  every  fold  that  is  gathered  in  the 
heavy  drapery  above.  But  soon  the  sun-beams  find  a  rift,  and  as 
the  clouds  melt  away  in  the  mist  of  blue  rain,  man's  gloom  disap- 
pears, and  he  smiles.  A  hasty  prayer,  and  again  the  sky  is  forgotten. 

We  are  ever  awake  to  the  beauty  of  the  hills,  to  the  changing 
moods  of  the  sea  ;  we  trace  the  delicate  beauty  of  every  vein  in  the 
hare-bell's  cup,  and  strolling  along  the  sea-shore  our  eye  is  ever 
quick  to  catch  the  gleam  of  some  pretty  shell.  But  every  one  can- 
not feel  the  breezy  spray  from  the  sea  upon  his  cheek;  to  some  a  breath 
from  the  ocean's  lips  would  restore  new  life  and  strength.  Alas  !  for 
them,  they  are  far  distant  from  the  sound  of  its  mysterious  voice. 
To  many,  the  dainty  hare-bells  nestling  'mid  waving  grasses,  is  a 
tiny  bit  of  beauty  still  unknown  ;  but  the  sky — infinite  in  its  ex- 
panse— where  will  we  not  find  it  ?  Where  does  it  not  smile  down 
upon  us  ?  It  matters  not  how  poor  or  rich  the  surroundings,  be  it 

no 


THE  SKY  111 

hovel  or  palace,  we  have  but  to  uplift  the  eye  to  meet  its  gentle 
downcast  glance.  There  is  a  charm  in  its  brightness,  yet  it  is  not 
"  too  bright  and  good  for  human  Nature's  daily  food."  Ye  students 
of  Nature,  who  love  to  note  each  changing  aspect  of  the  whispering 
woods,  ye  know  not  what  beauties  unfold  themselves  above  your 
heads  !  Look  into  the  deep  blue  chasm  of  the  air,  study  each  pass- 
ing mood  !  Is  not  its  soft .  Summer  tenderness  as  beautiful  as  a 
mother's  smile  ?  Sometimes  capricious,  sometimes  fearful,  some- 
times gentle — is  it  not  almost  human  in  its  passions  ?  Is  it  not 
almost  divine  in  its  infinity  ?  Yet  how  seldom  do  we  heed  its 
moods,  how  seldom  do  we  read  'the  lesson  of  the  sky  !  We  turn  not 
our  thoughts  thither,  and  when  we  so  speak  of  it  it  is  only  when  a 
lull  in  our  conversation  causes  us  to  complain  of  the  sunless  day,  or 
perhaps  praise  the  warmth  and  brightness  of  the  morning.  Who 
among  the  group  could  tell  of  the  great  white  chain  of  mountains 
that  girded  the  horizon  at  noon,  or  the  little  sun-beam  that,  stealing 
out,  smote  upon  the  melting  crest  ?  Yet  every  cloud  that  sweeps 
across  the  blue  above  has  a  lesson  to  convey,  for  has  not  God  set 
His  bow  in  their  folds  ;  does  He  not  hide  His  kindness  in  their 
very  depths  ?  Each  bright  ray  that  leaves  the  sun  bound  on  its 
gentle  mission  is  shivered  into  myriad  beams  in  the  misty  ether  of 
the  sky.  Those  airy  mists  that  veil  yon  mountain  crest  will  soon 
turn  to  hurrying  clouds  that  skim  across  the  evening  sky  ;  and  when 
the  parched  earth  looks  lovingly  up  to  the  serene  heavens  they  will 
join  their  hands  across  the  sky,  'and  'mid  the  wail  of  tempests  and 
crashing  of  thunder  they  will  drop  their  "  garnered  fullness"  down 
upon  the  thirsty  earth.  Oh  !  how  appalling  is  the  majesty 
of  the  sky  in  its  sterner  moods  !  But  as  the  sun  smiles  again 
through  a  rift  in  yonder  cloud,  these  cheering  words  come  to 
the  mind  :  "  He  shall  set  his  promise  in  the  bow."  See  it  arching 
its  many  hues  across  the  heavens  :  is  it  not  a  fit  messenger  to  recall 
to  us  God's  undying  promise  ?  Again,  clouds  are  the  ministers  of 
God,  for  to  their  care  has  he  entrusted  the  glorious  sun.  They 
spread  at  morn  the  golden  pavement  for  His  chariot  wheels  ;  for 


112  SILVER  JUBILEE  MEMORIAL 

Him  they  build  a  temple  of  dazzling  whiteness  at  noon  ;  and  they 
draw  at  evening  the  purple  veil  about  the  sanctuary  of  His  rest. 
Dancing  before  the  radiant  orb  of  day,  they  scatter  everywhere  the 
sparkling  gems  He  pours  from  His  vast  urn  ;  or,  heaped  in  a  snow 
mass  upon  the  vapory  blue,  they  suggest  to  us  the  truth  that  God, 
in  His  wish  to  be  nearer  to  us,  has  set  His  throne  in  their  midst. 

But  if  we  have  failed  to  notice  the  sky  and  its  beauties,  others 
have  not.  To  them  the  fleecy  forms  of  the  clouds  tell  of  Him  "  who 
giveth  snow-like  wool,  and  scattereth  hoar-frost  like  ashes."  Some 
never  watch  the  evening  sky  without  remembering  that  those  ambi- 
ent folds  of  clouds  are  like  the  same  that  enveloped  the  sacred  form 
of  our  Saviour,  and  hid  Him  from  the  sight  of  His  loving  disciples. 
How  consoling  to  think  that  heaven  is  directly  over  my  head :  at  night 
it  eeems  especially  near,  and  when  I  look  up  I .  imagine  that  the 
starry  veil  of  the  sky  is  all  that  is  between  heaven  and  me  !  But 
full  well  do  I  know  that  something  darker,  deeper  than  the  sky, 
hides  from  my  vision  the  great  White  Throne. 

Ah  !  how  many  beauties  have  passed  us  unseen,  unregretted,  be- 
cause unknown  I  Let  us  not  leave  them  unnoticed,  but  know  them 
every  one,  for  there  is  a  lesson  in  every  leaf,  and  each  phase  of 
Nature  is  the  autograph  of  God. 

ZOE  CHADWICK. 
Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 


God  alone  knows  the  value  of  a  kind  word. — K.  K. 


a   5 

§  « 

I 


What  a  mysterious  little  word  Apart  is  ! 

It  holds  within  its  small  compass  a  power  which  awakens  the 
deepest  emotions  of  a  loving  heart,  and  yet,  strange  to  say,  it  also 
contains  a  depth  of  meaning  which  brings  joy,  peace  and  happiness 
to  the  soul. 

If  we  consider  it  as  one  word,  what  may  Apart  mean  ? 

These  five  little  letters  may  tell  us  that  five  hundred  miles  lie 
between  us  and  the  smiles  of  loved  faces  ! 

What  may  apart  mean  ?  That  perhaps  five  minutes'  distance 
only,  separates  us  from  those  whom  duty  keeps  from  our  side  ! 

Apart  !  Apart  !  It  whispers  that  an  idle  word,  a  weighty  trifle  has 
severed  hearts  and  lives  that  should  have  flowed  on  as  one.  Apart  ! 
That  word  which  affection  dreads  even  more  than  death,  that  word 
which  friendship  is  loath  to  pronounce  ! 

But  let  me  transform  its  letters  into  a  word  of  life  "  A  part."  What 
care  I  "though  leagues  of  land  divide  us  and  oceans  roll  between," 
if  I  am  confident  that  within  my  own  breast  I  bear  with  me  a  part 
of  my  friend's  heart,  that  I  have  left  with  my  loved  one  a  part  of 
my  own  ! 

What  care  I  though  I  roam  'neath  a  foreign  sky  "a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land,"  if  my  soul  whispers  to  me  that  I  have  a  part  in  the 
thoughts  of  the  friend  I  have  left  behind  ?  What  care  I  if  sorrow, 
trials,  misfortune  assail  me  when  I  am  certain  that  there  are  some 
who  will  bear  a  part  of  my  weighty  charge,  and  lighten  by  daily 
prayers  a  part  of  my  weary  burden  ? 

8  113 


11-t  SILVER  JUBILEE  MEMORIAL 

My  soul  is  cheered  on  while  still  in  the  "  Valley  of  Tears,"  when 
I  think  that  though  I  may  be  apart  from  those  my  heart  cherishes 
a  day  will  come  when  we  will  share  together  a  part  of  Heaven  on 
that  bright  shore  where  "  sorrow  is  no  more,  and  parting  is 
unknown." 

FLORENCE  HYDE. 
Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cat. 


Such  is  life,  first,  a  greeting   to  earth  and  its  joys,  then,  a 
parting,  a  sad  farewell,  leaving  behind  naught  but  a  fleeting  memory. 

— May  French. 


0,  Lone  Mountain  !  City  of  Tombs  !  Well  hast  thou  been 
named.  Densely  populated  as  is  thy  area,  thou  still  art  lone,  thou 
resting-place  of  the  dear  departed.  Thou  art  a  great  book  in  which 
we  may  read  the  lives  of  the  many  who  slumber  beneath  thy  sod, 
and  taking  unto  our  hearts  thy  lessons,  wiser  grow. 

— Mary  T.  Dawson. 


Perhaps  it  is  a  fancy, 

But  it  always  seems  to  me, 

That  little  children  earthward  sent, 

Are  flowers  from  God's  garden  lent. 

Just  here  a  pansy  blossom  sweet, 
And  there  a  violet's  dainty  face, 
While,  pure  and  fair  the  lily  tall, 
With  blushing  rose,  fill  bower  and  hall. 

The  wayward  daffodil  that  nods 
And  bends  to  every  passing  breeze, 
The  winsome  fairies  of  the  wildwood, 
Who  softly  troop  like  dreams  of  childhood. 

But  thou  wert  Stella,  e'en  a  Star, 
Thine  eye  did  ray  as  pure  a  light 
As  comes  from  seraph,  great  and  bright 
Who  basks  fore'er  in  God's  blessed  sight. 

The  One  who  sent  thee,  for  awhile, 
Kept  thy  dear  heart  all  for  His  own, 
He  knew  how  soon  with  brightest  beam, 
Thy  glance  should  heav'nward  dart  its  gleam. 

Earth  was  not  fair  enough,  Estelle, 
Its  frame  no  fitting  case  for  thee, 
For  thou  wert  made  for  nobler  things, 
A  throne  befitting  royal  kings. 

,     11.-) 


116 


SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

Now  favor'd  one,  from  thy  dear  Home 
Where  crown'd  thou  stands't  harp  in  hand. 
Look  down  on  Mother,  Teacher,  Friend, 
And  strains  of  thy  sweet  music  send. 

'Twill  soothe  the  anguish'd  heart  of  her, 
Who  solaced  e'er  thy  earthly  woe, 
Who  loved  thee  with  an  endless  love, 
And  longing  waits  her  call  above. 


It  is  the  hour  of  twilight  when  all  earth  seems  wrapt  in  a  silent 
•spell,  it  is  the  hour  over  which  Time  loves  to  linger  and  to  open  to 
the  longing  eyes  of  youth  the  broad  vista  of  the  future,  ever  flavored 
with  the  sunshine  of  happiness.  A  fair  young  girl  is  seated  on  the 
rocks,  gazing  far  o'er  the  sea  ;  the  murmuring  of  the  waves  as  they 
break  upon  the  strand  falls  unheeded  on  her  ear,  she  sees  not  the 
beauty  of  the  scene,  for  her  thoughts  are  far  away.  The  eyes  where 
love  lies  dreaming  and  the  blushes  that  softly  mantle  her  cheek, 
tell  that  she  is  wandering  in  the  future's  rosy  path.  It  is  with  a 
sigh  she  rises  as  the  deepening  shadows  of  night  dispel  her  visions. 
0,  halcyon  days  of  youth,  how  heedlessly  are  you  spent  I  0,  child 
of  Heaven,  remain  not  a  dreamer  ;  why  trouble  yourself  about  the 
future,  't  is  all  prepared  for  you  by  the  good  God. — Mamie  Lafferty, 


aod  Olicf^ael  Clr^elo 


Which  of  these  two  names  shall  be  placed  first  ?  It  is  indeed 
hard  to  decide.  Alike  only  in  being  great  and  famous.  We  need 
only  hear  these  names,  and  before  us  arise  two  forms,  resplendent, 
transfigured  in  the  light  of  immortal  fame  and  radiance  of  their  own 
great  souls. 

Many  are  the  stars  that  shine  in  the  vast  firmament  of  art  ; 
many  beautiful  and  brilliant,  illuming  the  earth  with  their  heav- 
enly light  ;  but  these  two  —  Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael  —  they  rule, 
they  are  as  the  great  sun  and  the  beautiful  moon.  When  that  sun 
is  in  the  heavens  the  stars  are  eclipsed  and  only  his  majestic  self  is 
visible.  But  that  sweeter  light  of  silvery  moon  —  who  would  part 
with  it  ?  It  envelopes  the  earth,  and  holds  it  spell-bound  in  its 
chains  of  beauty.  Yes,  the  mellow  light  from  Raphael's  brush  lures 
us  away  ;  until,  gazing  deeper  and  deeper  into  his  heavenly  visions 
we  are  unconsciously  lifted  far,  far  away,  until  we  find  ourselves 
listening  to  the  melodies  of  angels  that  bless  the  lovely  Mother  or 
praise  the  transfigured  Christ.  How  beautiful  must  have  been  the 
soul  that  filled  that  mind  with  such  heavenly  images  and  guided 
his  hand  in  creating  such  soulful  faces  and  angelic  forms  !  He  must 
have  lived,  not  as  other  men,  who  ever  turn  their  sight  on  earth  and 
things  of  earth,  but  in  a  realm  of  harmony  and  beauty.  One  would 
think  that  his  keen  eye  had  even  pierced  the  azure  sky,  and  the 
beauty  of  Heaven  itself  was  stamped  upon  his  soul.  Yes,  it  is  only 
from  Heaven  that  he  could  have  caught  so  divine  an  expression  as 
that  which  breathes  from  the  face  of  his  Madonna  di  San  Sisto. 
When  we  look  upon  it,  it  is  as  though  by  an  especial  privilege  the 
curtain  of  earth  were  drawn  aside  ;  and,  behold  !  in  a  real  vision  of 
Heaven,  the  Mother  of  God  radiant,  almost  dazzling  with  celestial 
light. 


118  SILVER   JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

Ever  gazing  on  the  beautiful  countenance  of  angels,  his  own  face 
seems  to  have  taken  the  impress  of  angelic  beauty.  And,  when  that 
beauty  was,  in  all  its  freshness  of  growth  and  fairest  bloom  ;  when 
the  young  artist's  soul  was  still  ardent  with  the  love  of  the  beauti- 
ful, God  took  him  where  his  soul  would  live  for  evermore  on  heav- 
enly beauty  ;  and  where,  in  youthful  beauty,  amongst  the  angel 
faces,  his  would  blend  in  the  harmony  of  Paradise. 

And  yet,  the  prince  of  painters  was  proud  to  consider  himself  a 
rival  of  the  mighty  Angelo,  and  to  let  the  influence  of  this  master 
of  art  be  seen  in  his  own  beautiful  work.  Yes,  mighty  indeed  must 
have  been  the  man  that  Raphael  was  proud  to  equal.  The  greatness 
of  Michael  Angelo  is  too  great  for  the  human  mind  to  grasp.  He 
holds  us  spellbound  and  wondering  ;  we  cannot  look  the  mighty 
sun  in  the  face  ;  his  light  is  too  dazzling  for  our  poor  sight ;  and  we 
are  stunned  and  blinded  by  its  strength.  Like  a  streak  of  lightning 
he  flashed  through  the  world  of  art,  crumbling  all  else  to  dust  and 
insignificance.  But,  mighty  as  are  his  works,  his  "  Moses,'"'  his 
"  David,"  his  "  Prophets, "  these  were  but  a  reflection  of  the 
mightier  conceptions  that  filled  the  soul  of  Angelo.  Those  indeed 
must  have  been  stupendous  and  too  great,  alas,  for  the  touch  of  any 
human  hand.  Yes,  the  names  of  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo  will 
ever  echo  in  the  world  of  art.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  compare 
them  ;  both  so  great,  yet  neither  greater — Michael  Angelo,  the  arch- 
angel of  painting  ;  and  Raphael  the  guardian  angel  to  the  young 
aspirant  of  art  and  beauty. 

Their  ardent  souls  at  last  are  satisfied  ;  for  now  the  soul  of 
Michael  Angelo  can  contemplate  face  to  face,  a  greatness  greater  than 
his  own  great  soul:  there  he  can  realize  his  ideals  in  the  infinity 
of  Heaven,  and  the  immensity  of  God.  There  Raphael  sits,  amidst 
choirs  of  angels,  listening  to  the  enraptured  song  of  his  "  Cecelia," 
and  ever  gazing  into  the  beauty  of  that  divine  Mother  whom  he 
loved  and  honored  on  earth. 

INEZ  DIHHLKK. 

Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oak/and,  Cat. 


He  who  replenishes  the  star-lanterns  and  hangs  them  one  by 
one  to  light  up  the  face  of  night  ;  He  who  scatters  flowers  abroad 
over  the  earth  to  make  it  fairer  and  more  fragrant;  He  it  is  who 
twines  the  pleasant  days  into  man's  life.  The  Poet  of  our  fireside 
has  said: — 

"  Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary." 

But  alas  if  we  consult  stern  facts,  daily  experience,  shall  we  not  con- 
clude from  the  average  life  of  mankind  that  "  into  some  days  only, 
the  sun  is  still  shining/'  ''many  days  are  dark  and  dreary." 

At  creation's  morn  all  days  were  days  of  happiness.  Man's 
life  was  to  be  a  perpetual  sunshine,  as  it  lay  untainted  in  the  light 
and  love  of  the  Creator's  beneficence.  Sin  was  the  first  cloud  that 
obscured  the  sunlight  of  that  glorious  day,  the  first  pang  of  sorrow 
that  pierced  a  human  heart.  Ah,  what  a  day  to  remember.  What 
a  day  for  all  generations  to  regret.  And  how  through  the  long, 
stern,  penitent  years  of  our  First  Parents'  exile,  how  the  memory  of 
that  sinless  day,  "  walking  with  God  in  the  garden,"  must  have 
stood  apart — a  thing  of  beauty,  but  no  less  of  pain,  lying  in  the 
shadow  of  their  offended  Maker's  displeasure,  revealing  a  claim  to 
happiness  wilfully  forfeited,  and  forfeited  forever. 

Yet  they  had  a  Father  to  deal  with,  whose  mercy  and  love  were 
not  commensurate  with  His  justice,  whose  Divine  Heart  could  not 
fail  to  be  touched  by  the  woes  of  His  penitent  children.  He  would 
not  dry  up  every  source  of  pleasure,  nor  quench  every  light  that 
might  brighten  their  pathway.  Along  the  rugged  road  of  life,  this 

119 


120  SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

forgiving  Father  has  strewn  many  a  pleasant  hour,  and  there  are 
few  or  none  that  have  not  to  thank  Him  for  days  burdened  with  the 
wealth  of  His  gifts,  as  well  as  the  perfume  of  sweet  memories. 

What  are  happy  days?  The  standard  would  vary  with  the 
capacity  and  possibilities  for  suffering  and  enjoying.  Taste,  situa- 
tion, temperament,  knowledge,  the  physical,  moral  and  intellectual 
conditions  of  mankind, — all  would  tend  to  make  the  standard  differ. 
The  invalid  would  bless  God  for  a  day's  freedom  from  pain;  the 
man  of  keen  moral  sensibilities  would  look  for  his  sunny  day 
among  his  virtuous  and  noble  deeds ;  while  the  saints  would  soar  to 
lofty  summits  in  the  unseen  world  of  beauty  and  truth.  God's  un- 
clouded smile  is  the  sun  of  that  Nuptial  Feast  in  which  His  holy 
ones  revel  eternally.  The  scholar  would  find  it  in  the  domain  of 
the  intellect,  midst  new  prospects,  lofty  thoughts,  startling  theories; 
while  the  child  of  art  would  call  his  happiest  day  in  which  he  had 
given  expression  to  his  life-long  ideal. 

But  a  young  girl's  happy  day,  would  she  find  it  among  these 
categories?  No;  the  latter,  for  the  most  part,  lie  beyond  the  field 
of  her  experience.  She  must  look  back  to  the  days  of  her  child-life, 
where  pleasant  hours  are  as  many  and  luxuriant  as  the  flowers  she 
loves  to  cull.  Without  a  care,  without  a  sorrow,  she  is  the  child  of 
sunshine  and  song.  Walking  hand  in  hand  with  Innocence  and 
Loveliness,  Nature  lavishes  upon  her  th'e  beautiful,  Religion  estab- 
lishes kinship  with  the  Angels,  the  Savior  leaves  upon  this  age  the 
print  of  His  blessing,  and  His  loving  invitation:  "  Suffer  little  ones 
to  come  unto  me."  "  Oh!  how  we  envy  the  children,"  says  the  Poet, 
ignoring  as  they  do  the  Past,  smiling  at  the  Present,  bounding  to- 
wards the  Future.  What  are  all  their  days,  but  pleasant  days? 
Again  our  Poet  sings : 

"  What  would  the  world  be  to  us, 
If  the  children  were  no  more? 
We  should  dread  the  desert  behind  us 
Worse  than  the  dark  before. 


OUR  PLEASANT  DAYS  121 

Ye  are  better  than  all  ballads 

That  ever  were  sung  or  said, 
For  ye  are  living  poems 

And  all  the  rest  are  dead." 

The  first  season  of  childhood  vanishes,  to  make  room  for  another 
phase  in  which  the  development  of  reason  tempers  the  glowing  at- 
mosphere, wherein  the  little  ones  delighted  to  bask.  With  the  dawn 
of  this  faculty  and  its  gradual  development,  the  struggles  of  the 
child  begin — temper  must  be  restrained,  ignorance  overcome,  good 
habits  instilled,  the  serious  work  of  life  commences,  and  now  the 
bird  which  hitherto  gladdened  us  with  joyous  song  gives  forth  at 
times  a  note  of  sadness;  its  wings  are  clipped,  its  flight  impeded;  its 
freedom  interfered  with.  Alas  for  the  caged  songster,  will  it  carol 
no  more?  Have  all  its  happy  days  been  counted?  The  child  thinks 
so  in  the  outburst  of  its  first  sorrow,  beautiful  in  its  very  earnest- 
ness. But  it  is  a  spring-shower  merging  suddenly  into  new  visions 
of  happiness,  and  the  day  is  only  brighter  for  the  cloud  that  over- 
cast its  morning.  "O  man  thou  pendulum  'twixt  a  smile  and  a 
tear,"  finds  ready  application  in  this  period  of  child-life. 

Travelling  onward  the  child  has  reached  a  more  serious  phase. 
Application  and  learning  meet  her  with  an  ominous  look.  They 
point  to  arduous  duties,  to  precipitous  heights,  to  rugged  paths 
which  must  be  travelled  over  ere  the  goal  is  reached.  Towards  that 
goal  the  school-girl  must  ever  press — press  on  as  the  soldier  does 
towards  victory,  as  the  conqueror  to  his  hard-won  laurels,  for  a  day 
of  glory  crowns  the  far-off  summits.  Yonder  is  her  beacon;  the 
clouds  may  darken,  shadows  fall  thick  and  gloomy  about  her,  she 
keeps  her  eye  on  this  luminary,  nerves  her  will,  cheers  her  oft  de- 
spondent heart,  and  presses  onward. 

Though  the  journey  be  long  and  the  task  an  onerous  one,  there 
are  many  pleasant  days  strewn  along  the  pathway  of  school-life — 
days  bubbling  over  with  frolic  and  mirth — days  of  quiet  enjoyment, 
of  sweet  intercourse  with  master-minds,  wherein  lofty  ideas  are 
formed  and  "  Excelsior  "  becomes  the  life-long  motto — days  of  sweet 


122  SILVER    JUBILEE   MEMORIAL 

dreaming  when  everything  is  fair  and  everyone  worthy  of  love  and 
trust.  Alas  that  the  illusion  should  vanish,  that  the  charm  should 
be  broken. 

Leaving  the  path  of  speculation  and  sweet  reminiscence,  we  pass 
into  those  of  reality.  We,  dear  companions,  have  climbed  those  sum- 
mits, and  the  day  whose  light  outshone  that  of  all  other  days,  has 
dawned  upon  us.  In  it  we  see  reflected  all  the  joys  of  the  Past,  we 
read  the  hopes  of  the  Future.  Let  ours  be  the  song  of  the  vintagers 
as  the  grape  gives  forth  its  luscious  wine,  ours  the  mirth  of  the  har- 
vesters as  they  garner  in  the  golden  sheaves.  Whom  do  we  find 
here  to  greet  us?  Those  who  have  gone  before  us  in  the  race.  The 
friends  of  our  childhood  extend  a  welcome;  the  loved  ones  of  our 
fireside  press  us  to  their  bosom;  Mother  Church  is  here  in  the  per- 
son of  her  prelate  and  pastors  to  bless  us  and  smile  their  approval. 
Oh  the  joy,  the  pride  of  this  eventful  day,  beautiful  as  it  is  in  real- 
ity, will  be  still  more  charming  in  hours  of  retrospection.  We  hold 
it,  dear  companions  ;  we  bless  God,  our  dear  teachers  and  beloved 
parents  for  the  long-desired  prize.  Standing  as  we  do  on  the  thresh- 
old of  the  future,  with  a  pure  and  lofty  ideal  in  view,  we  kneel  at 
our  Archbishop's  feet  to  beg  a  blessing  that  as  our  lives  broaden  and 
sink  into  deeper  channels,  our  souls  may  be  wedded  to  useful  and 
virtuous  deeds,  and  that  the  crown  of  true  womanhood  may  ever  be 
entwined  with  the  laurels  we  bear  away  from  our  Alma  Mater. 

FANNY  WHITE,        KATE  WHITE. 
Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 
I 


The  lapse  of  years  softens  the  sorrows  and  trials  of  other  days. 

— May  FrenrJi. 


°f 


In  Fancy's  em'rald  shimmering  sea, 
There  floats  a  fairy  golden  isle, 

Whose  banks  of  broider'd  clover  lea 
On  merry  laughing  waters  smile. 

This  isle  of  dreams  is  beauteous  wrought 
With  loveliness  from  poet's  theme, 

Echoing  soft,  sweet  Music's  thought, 
Glowing  with  the  artist's  theme. 

There  Nature  weaves  her  fairest  charms  ; 

Sweet  flowers  adorned  with  iris  hue 
Do  waft  to  zephyr  fragrant  balms, 

While  shy  they  droop  with  kiss  of  dew. 

Tall  trees  their  leafy  tassels  swing 
'Neath  gentle  touch  of  nightingale, 

Whose  lute  responsive  wooings  sing 
To  pearly  fountain's  murmuring  tale. 

There,  veiled  in  clouds  of  lace,  the  morn 
On  azure  curtained  throne  appears, 

While  round  her  soft,  with  mystic  tune, 
Doth  steal  the  "  Music  of  the  Spheres." 

Upon  that  isle  Stern  Death  is  kind, 
He  brings  us  back  our  loved  ones  gone  ; 

And  hearts  on  earth  that  breaking  pined 
Are  there  no  longer  sad,  forlorn. 

123 


124  SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

For  oh  !  our  cherished  loved  ones  dear 
Are  with  us  on  that  golden  shore, 

And  joy  in  rapture  sheds  soft  tear 

To  know  we're  with  our  loved  once  more. 

There,  cold  earth  fades  and  all  is  bliss  ; 

There,  Mortal's  spirit  Care — is  Rest — 
And  with  tranquillity's  soft  kiss 

It  gently  slumbers  on  its  breast. 

That  isle  I  ever  love  to  roam, 

And  there  from  earth  I  blissful  stray, 

For  oh  !  Love  calls  it:  "  Home,  Sweet  Home," 
And  there  it  fondly  steals  away. 

Ah  !  yes,  upon  that  lovely  isle 
Love  breathes  soft  mystic  strains  ; 

No  heart  aches  'neath  its  gentle  smile, 
No  silent  sighs,  no  sad  refrains. 

With  sweetest  song  she  wakes  her  lyre 

To  soft,  ecstatic,  tender  thrills, 
Hushing  every  tone  of  dire, 

In  its  warm  heart  music  trills. 

Then  blame  me  not  if  oft  from  care 

I  stray  upon  that  mystic  isle  ; 
For  ne'er  Earth's  sorrows  could  I  bear, 

If  there  I  found  not  sweet  Joy's  smile. 

EMMA  GOETZ. 
Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  ffearf,  Oakland,  Cat. 


The  very  consciousness  that  the  good  opinions  of  others  are 
unmerited,  causes  one  to  resolve  to  be  worthy  of  them. — K.  F. 


Chisel  in  hand  stood  the  artist — before  him  a  huge  block  of  mar- 
ble, like  a  great  white  cloud  about  to  assume  some  fantastic  shape. 
Before  the  sculptor's  imagination  was  passing  a  long  train  of  fancied 
images.  What  a  strange  picture  they  made  I  And  what  a  mingled 
and  grotesque  assembly  !  He  must  be  very  near  Olympus.  See  ! 
the  form  of  beautiful  Venus  following  that  of  a  vestal  virgin  ;  an 
inspired  Pythoness  led  by  a  fearfully  beautiful  Medusa  ;  a  dying 
gladiator  and  a  lost  Pleiad.  What  mean  these  varied  forms  !  The 
sculptor  knew  not  what  scene  to  carve  from  on  the  waiting  marble. 
He  called  upon  the  gods  of  Olympus  to  inspire  his  heaven-born 
genius.  He  prayed  ideal  creatures  to  speak  to  his  listening  soul. 
Did  his  soul  catch  the  answer  ?  Not  from  Olympus,  for  the  Olympus 
of  Mythology  was  but  a  dream.  As  he  stood  breathless,  expectant, 
his  listening  spirit  caught  the  sound  of  a  chant  from  the  ivied  clois- 
ter on  the  bluff.  He  strained  every  nerve  to  hear  the  whole-souled 
harmony — he  felt  it  thrill  through  him  ;  he  felt  the  depth  of  its 
music  ;  he  felt  the  inspiration  it  spoke.  It  told  him  of  a  dying 
Saviour,  a  sorrowing  mother,  a  repentant  Magdalene — Angelo  carved 
his  Piela. 

"  Sculptors  of  life  are  we 
As  we  stand  with  our  lives  uncarved  before  us' ' 

waiting  pure  and  fair  as  the  sacrificial  mists  that  rise  from  the  altar 
of  earth  to  greet  the  morning,  are  our  lives,  as  yet  unscathed  by  sin 
and  sorrow,  unliiied  by  care.  AVhile  we  are  standing,  chisel  in  hand, 
to  shape  the  marble  before  us,  false  dreams  of  earth's  delusions, 
bright  visions  of  pleasure,  of  delight,  fairy  fire-flies  of  fancy,  spark- 
ling for  a  day,  float  in  the  vista  of  our  imagination. 


126 


SILVER   JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 


Let  us  seize  not  these  delusive  charms,  but  wait — wait,  with 
listening  soul,  for  the  psalm  of  destiny.  The  zephyrs  of  prayer  will 
waft  to  our  soul  its  mystic  music  ;  we  will  catch  the  strain  as  it 
floats  from  heaven.  Upon  the  waiting  marble  let  us  chisel  with  a 
firm  and  steady  hand  the  outlines  of  true  and  noble  lives.  Let  us 
be  faithful  to  the  divine  inspiration,  and  upon  the  yielding  stone 
trace  a  form  that  we  will  be  proud  to  submit  to  the  Master  Artist. 

"  Let  us  carve  it  then  on  yielding  stone, 

With  many  a  sharp  incision : 
Its  heavenly  beauties  shall  be  our  own — 

Our  lives,  an  angel's  vision." 

LUCILE  EDWARDS. 
Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 


We  are  cradled  in  the  star-hung  world,  watched  and  warded  by 
angels,  bearing  the  image  of  God,  and  preparing  for  a  destiny,  of 
whose  glory  thought  has  no  image  and  language  no  name. 

— Lulu  French. 


>  pi  city  FPeVealed 


AVhen  Almighty  God  placed  us  on  this  earth  as  at  a  resting-place 
on  our  way  to  our  heavenly  home,  He  spread  over  and  around  the 
stern  realities  of  this  transitory  life  a  bright  veil  of  delightful  mystery, 
implanted  within  our  souls  the  desire  to  enjoy  its  fascinations  and 
gave  us  the  power  of  instructing  ourselves  in  the  ways  of  the  Creator. 
Nature  is  a  book  open  to  all,  no  blank  pages  do  we  meet  when  per- 
using it,  but  pages  closely  written.  In  it  we  read  of  God,  of  His 
goodness,  His  power,  His  perfections,  His  love.  It  is  so  related  to 
the  mind  of  men,  that  it  is  evident  they  were  made  for  each  other. 
The  greatest,  the  purest  pleasures  we  derive  here  below  are  from  the 
contemplation  of  Nature  ;  but  a  higher  purpose  than  present  pleasure 
is  accomplished;  entering  life  as  a  germ  the  soul  expands  into  intelli- 
gence, virtue  and  knowledge  through  the  teachings  of  Nature,  the 
wisest,  gentlest,  and  holiest  of  teachers.  Creative  wisdom  never 
works  in  vain  or  in  sport.  Even  the  flying  cloud  has  its  mission;  its 
fantastic  forms  and  gorgeous  colors  are  divinely  appointed.  The 
hills  and  valleys,  mountains  and  dales,  which  seem  scattered  in 
accidental  confusion,  have  received  their  contour  by  design  ;  con- 
sequently, each  stone  and  mineral  composing  these  hills  was  also 
the  work  of  special  direction  according  to  ends  foreseen.  In  the 
living  kingdom  of  Nature,  too,  there  must  be  an  adequate  purpose 
and  end  accomplished  by  every  movement,  and  in  every  creature  of 
the  Divine  Hand. 

Hence,  the  study  of  Nature  does  not  only  please,  but  it  instructs, 
as  it  enables  our  intelligence  to  recognize  Divine  Intelligence.  Nature 
is  all  luminous  with  the  Divine  Presence.  It  brings  the  operations  of 
the  great  Architect  almost  within  the  grasp  of  human  intelligence, 

127 


128  SILVER   JUBILEE   MEMORIAL 

revealing  the  conceptions  of  His  Mind  before  they  were  embodied  in 
actual  existence.  We  hear  His  voice  in  the  rolling  thunder,  contem- 
plate His  immensity  in  the  vast  ocean,  feel  His  power  in  the  mighty 
torrent,  and  adore  His  love,  beauty  and  goodness  in  the  surpassing 
wonders  of  Nature.  Nature  is  a  limpid  stream  which  reflects  in  all 
its  favored  loveliness,  the  most  glorious  of  panoramas.  Shall  we  not 
gaze  into  its  pearly  depths,  and  read  with  rapturous  admiration  and 
deep  reverence  the  grand  secrets  which  none  but  the  Creator  can 
communicate  ?  If  some  in  the  contemplation  of  its  beauties  have 
been  unfortunate  enough  to  forget  their  Author  and  wander  from 
the  path  of  truth,  can  we  blame  Nature  for  it  ?  No,  certainly. 
For  Nature,  with  her  waving  forests,  verdant  hills,  fertile  valleys, 
and  countless  rivers,  stands  as  an  image  of  its  Creator — and  this 
picture  is  one  we  see  in  almost  every  substance,  animate  and 
inanimate. 

It  is  not  my  object  now  to  speak  of  the  relations  between  God  and 
Nature,  to  define  the  Trinity,  or  to  explain  this  first  mystery  of  our 
Holy  Faith,  for  I  have  not  the  capacity  required  ;  moreover,  the  doc- 
trine of  the  Trinity  is  such  an  incomprehensible  mystery,  that  the 
more  we  meditate  on  it  the  more  wonderful  and  inexplicable  it  seems. 
It  is  a  most  sublime  revelation,  solving  the  numerous  difficulties 
against  which  the  ancient  philosophers  struggled  in  vain.  The  great 
St.  Augustine,  who  has  written  fifteen  books  on  the  subject,  says  in 
the  Conclusion  :  "  But  among  the  many  things  I  have  now  said, 
there  is  nothing  that  I  dare  to  profess  myself  to  have  said  worthy  of 
the  ineffableness  of  the  highest  Trinity,  but  rather  confess  that  the 
wonderful  knowledge  of  Him  is  too  great  for  me,  and  that  I  cannot 
attain  to  it."  Then  he  concludes  by  a  prayer,  beginning  with  these 
words  :  "  O  Lord,  our  God,  we  believe  in  Thee,  the  Father,  the  Son, 
and  the  Holy  Spirit,  for  the  Truth  would  not  say,  Go,  baptize  all 
nations  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy 
Spirit,  unless  Thou  wast  a  Trinity."  In  his  work  on  the  "  City  of 
God,"  Vol.  1,  Book  xi.,  he  consecrates  several  chapters  to  this  sub- 
ject, to  which  we  may  refer  if  we  wish  to  study  the  matter. 


THE   TRINITY  REVEALED  IN  NATURE  129 

Every  effect  has  within  it  some  degree  of  perfection  which  gives 
to  it  a  certain  resemblance  to  its  cause,  at  least  analogically.  As  the 
artist  seeks  to  leave  on  the  canvas  an  image  of  what  exists  in  his 
mind,  so  has  God  left  in  Nature  an  impress  of  the  Trinity.  Bourda- 
love,  in  one  of  his  sermons,  said  that  "  there  is  no  mystery  where 
God  is  more  incomprehensible  than  the  mystery  of  the  Blessed 
Trinity. "  At  another  time  he  said  :  "I  have  said  it,  and  again  avow 
it,  that  the  act  of  religion  by  which  we  confess  that  three  persons 
make  one,  is  the  greatest  effort  of  faith."  This  every  one  will  admit, 
but  we  must  also  acknowledge  that  no  truth  is  so  frequently  and  in 
so  fascinating  a  manner  presented  to  us.  Almighty  God,  knowing 
the  pride  and  stubbornness  of  man,  who  will  seldom  admit  what  he 
does  not  understand,  has  like  an  indulgent  Father  placed  before  our 
eyes  proofs,  as  it  were,  of  the  Trinity.  With  wonderful  love  He 
smiles  on  us  at  every  step  ;  we  can  not  even  speak,  think,  or  act 
without  being  ourselves  images  of  the  Trinity.  No  teacher  is  so 
successful  'as  he  who  lets  his  pupils  believe  that  they  have  the  merit 
of  having  discovered  what  his  teaching  alone  has  accomplished.  So 
it  is  with  Almighty  God  ;  He  has  everywhere  placed  before  us  images 
of  the  Trinity,  that  we  may  have  the  pleasure  of  discovering  these 
types  of  their  Author.  Father  Faber  says  :  "  As  the  image  of  God's 
perfections,  Creation  was  the  faint  shadow  of  that  most  gladdening 
mystery,  the  Eternal  Generation  of  the  Son."  As  the  communica- 
tion of  His  love,  and  the  love  of  His  own  glory,  Creation  also  dimly . 
pictured  that  unspeakable  necessity  of  the  divine  life,  the  Eternal 
Procession  of  the  Spirit.  "  Perhaps  all  the  works  of  God  have  this 
mark  of  His  Triune  Majesty  upon  them,  this  perpetual  forthshadow- 
ing  of  the  Generation  of  the  God  and  the  Procession  of  the  Spirit, 
which  have  been  and  are  the  life  of  God  from  all  Eternity."  Nature, 
grace  and  glory  may  thus  perhaps  all  be  imprinted  with  this  mark 
of  God,  the  emblem,  the  device,  the  monogram  of  the  Trinity  in 
Unity.  The  natural  joy  of  beautiful  scenery,  the  strong  grace  of 
Christian  holiness,  and  the  thrill  of  glory  which  passes  from  our 
souls  from  the  unveiled  face  of  God,  all  draw  us  home  to  the  Blessed 


130  SILVER    JUBILEE   MEMORIAL 

Trinity,  our  last  End  and  First  Cause.     "  A  triple  cord  of  His  pres- 
ence is  bound  round  all  things,  and  penetrates  through  substance 
by  essence,  by  presence,  and  by  power."     In  the  kingdom  of  Nature 
there  are  three  separate  worlds,  which  are  full  of  exquisite  enjoy- 
ment :  the  physical  world,  which  is  an  emanation  from  the  ever- 
lasting and  inexhaustible  gladness  of  the  Most  High  ;  the  intellectual 
world,  with  its  marvelous  shadows  of  the  incomprehensible  joys  of 
God  himself ;  and  the  moral  world,  representing  Him  who  is  the 
co-equal  limit  of  the  Godhead,  the  third  person  of  the  Blessed  Trin- 
ity,— and  yet  these  three  worlds,  the  physical,  intellectual  and  moral, 
are  one  world,  a  most  striking  picture  of  the  Trinity.     The  three- 
fold heavens  proclaim  the  Trinity.     The  earth,  the  sea,  and  the  air 
form  a  temple  by  means  of  which  we  are  to  mount  to  that  glorious 
kingdom  where  reside  the  blessed.     Our  sources  of  light  are  three  : 
sun,  moon  and  stars,  that  in  obedient  and  majestic  harmony  tread 
the  path  which  God  has  appointed,  and  move  as  one,  never  sleeping. 
Every  great  thing  is  triune.     Of  intelligent  beings  there  are  three 
orders  :  God,   angels   and   men.     Of  created   beings,    three   more  : 
angels,  men  and  brutes.     Man  is  triune  in  almost  every  respect. 
First,  his  mind — "The  mind  of  man,"  says  St.  Augustine,  "who 
knows  himself  and  loves  himself,  and  the  mind  that  knows  itself, 
through  itself  is  another  image  of  the  Blessed  Trinity.     These  three 
are  one  and  also  equal,  viz.,  the  mind  itself,  the  love,  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  it  ;  they  exist  substantially,  are  predicated  relatively,  and 
are  inseparable."     There  is  another  trinity  in  the  mind  of  man, 
which  appears  much  more  evident  than  the  former,  viz.,  his  memory, 
understanding  and  will,  which  are  not  three  minds,  but  one  mind. 
The  body  of  man  consists  of  three  parts  :  head,  trunk  and  limbs  ; 
each  limb-three  members,  also  three  joints.  In  his  face,  three  features 
of  sense  :  eyes,  nose  and  mouth  ;  and  three  other  features  ;  fore- 
head, cheek  and  chin.     Our  lives  consist  of  three  stages  :  youth, 
manhood  and  old  age.     Living  creatures  are  of  three  kinds  :  birds, 
beasts  and  fishes  ;  they  move  in  three  ways  :  walking,  swimming, 
flying  ;  and  have  three  modes  of  subsistence  :  carnivorous,  herbiv- 


THE   TRINITY  REVEALED  IN  NATURE  131 

orous  and  omnivorous.  There  are  three  classes  of  savors  :  bitter, 
sweet  and  sour.  Actions  are  of  three  classes  :  good,  bad  and  indii'- 
ferent.  Truth  also  has  three  divisions  :  metaphysical,  logical  and 
moral.  And  so  on  throughout  all  the  universe. 

Almighty  God  has,  indeed,  everywhere  so  written  the  proofs  of 
the  Holy  Trinity,  that  he  must  be  very  stupid  who  does  not  see  them. 
The  philosophers  have  divided  philosophy  into  three  parts  :  physi- 
cal, logical  and  ethical — not,  however,  with  any  allusion  to  the 
Blessed  Trinity  ;  but  it  is  certain  that  in  these  three  great  general 
questions  all  their  intellectual  energy  was  spent.  Again,  there  are 
three  things  which  every  artificer  must  possess  in  order  to  effect  any- 
thing— nature,  education  and  practice.  Nature  is  to  be  judged  by 
capacity  ;  education  by  knowledge  ;  practice  by  its  fruit — the  nat- 
ural having  respect  to  Nature  ;  the  rational  to  education  ;  the  moral 
to  practice. 

St.  Augustine  finds  a  picture  of  the  Trinity  in  love — he  that 
loves,  the  object  loved,  and  love  ;  one  also  in  sight  ;  another  in  the 
holding,  contemplating  and  loving  faith  temporal  ;  besides  many 
kinds  of  trinity,  too  numerous  to  mention.  In  the  kingdoms  of 
Nature,  animal,  vegetable  and  mineral,  we  have  a  trinity  connected 
by  another,  sponges,  zoophytes  and  diatomes  ;  the  mysterious  chains 
which  unite  them  add  a  new  chain  to  the  study  of  Nature.  In  many 
plants  we  also  find  a  picture  of  the  Trinity.  St.  Patrick  found  one 
in  the  shamrock,  and  used  it  to  instruct  the  natives  of  Ireland  in 
that  mystery.  No  number  is  repeated  oftener  in  the  Holy  Scriptures 
than  the  number  three.  There  have  been  three  dispensations  of 
truth  :  the  patriarchal,  the  Jewish,  and  the  Christian.  There  are 
three  divisions  in  the  Old  Testament  :  the  Law,  the  Prophets,  and 
the  Psalms.  St.  Paul  mentions  three  heavens.  Adam  and  Noah 
each  had  three  sons.  There  were  three  great  patriarchs  :  Abra- 
ham, Isaac  and  Jacob.  The  camp  of  the  Israelites  was  threefold. 
Moses  appointed  three  cities  of  refuge.  Three  orders  served  in 
the  temple  :  high  priests,  priests  and  levites.  The  high  priest  wore 
a  triple  crown.  The  levites  were  of  three  classes.  The  Israel- 


132  SILVER    JUBILEE   MEMORIAL 

ites  had  to  assemble  in  the  temple  three  times  a  year.  There 
were  three  great  religious  festivals.  According  to  Holy  Script- 
ure, God  has  regulated  all  things  in  measure,  number  and  weight, 
thus  revealing  another  Trinity.  In  the  New  Testiment,  three  wise 
men  came  from  the  East  to  adore  the  Infant  Jesus.  The  child 
Jesus  was  found  in  the  temple  after  three  days.  Three  apostles 
were  with  our  Saviour  at  the  Transfiguration,  and  three  in  the  gar- 
den of  Olives.  There  are  three  that  give  testimony  in  heaven  :  the 
Father,  the  Word,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  these  three  are  one. 
There  are  three  Theological  virtues  :  Faith,  Hope  and  Charity. 
While  remaining  in  this  world  we  have  three  important  duties  to 
perform:  to  God,  to  our  neighbor,  and  to  ourselves.  Three  emi- 
nent good  works:  almsdeeds,  prayer  and  fasting.  Three  evan- 
gelical counsels :  poverty,  chastity  and  obedience.  In  the  Church 
of  Christ,  three  orders :  militant,  triumphant  and  suffering.  Observe 
a  triplicity  in  rational  speech:  the  voice,  the  word,  and  the  breath. 
See  it  again  in  human  existence  :  to  be,  to  do,  to  suffer.  Matter  is 
disposed  in  three  states  :  solid,  liquid,  and  aeriform.  There  are 
three  primitive  colors:  yellow,  red  and  blue,  for  by  the  mixture  of 
these  all  others  are  produced,  and  when  blended  they  form  clear 
white.  In  the  human  act  there  is  a  triplicity:  thought,  word 
and  deed.  In  every  syllogism,  three  parts.  Three  is  an  emblem 
of  strength — a  threefold  chord  is  not  easily  broken.  The  triangle  is  of 
the  utmost  importance  in  mathematics.  Time  has  three  divisions  : 
past,  present  and  future.  Our  day  is  composed  of  three  parts  : 
morning,  noon  and  night.  The  poets  take  cognizance  of  the  num- 
ber three.  Milton  speaks  of  "three-bolted  thunder,1'  and  his 
expression  "  thrice  happy  "  has  a  superlative  meaning.  "  In  all 
religions,"  says  Brownson,  "in  all  philosophies,  in  all  thought,  in 
all  speech,  we  find  asserted  in  some  form  the  essential  Triad,  or 
the  mystery  of  the  Trinity."  Even  in  the  fables  of  Polytheism  we 
find  numerous  traces  of  the  Trinity.  There  were  three  principal 
deities — Jupiter,  Neptune  and  Pluto.  The  Greeks  divided  their 
gods  into  three  classes — celestial,  terrestrial  and  infernal.  They 


THE   TRINITY  REVEALED  IN  NATURE  133 

often  represented  their  animals  as  having  three  heads.  There  were 
three  Graces,  three  Gorgons,  three  Fates,  and  three  times  three 
Muses.  The  Romans  formerly  sacrificed  three  victims  at  the 
establishment  of  leagues  and  truces.  The  Celts  and  Goths  had 
their  triads  of  gods.  The  Druids  found  a  trinity  in  the  mistletoe, 
because  its  leaves  and  berries  were  formed  in  clusters  of  three 
united  in  one  stalk.  The  divine  triad  of  the  Persians  was  repre- 
sented by  a  large  circle,  in  the  center  of  which  was  the  upper 
part  of  a  human  figure  joined  to  the  body  and  wings  of  a  dove. 
The  circle  emblem  of  eternity  represented  their  supreme  being; 
the  human  figure  and  the  dove,  thought,  word  and  action.  The 
Chinese  attach  a  mystical  importance  to  the  number  three.  The 
Egyptians  also  had  a  notion  of  the  Trinity.  The  Magi  were  a  sort 
of  trinity.  Plato  seems  to  have  had  some  idea  of  the  Trinity,  as  we 
see  by  his  second  letter  to  Dyonisius.  The  doctrine  of  the  Trinity 
is  knowh  in  the  East  Indies  and  Thibet.  Many  missionaries  state 
the  infidels  whom  they  instructed  had  a  faint  knowledge  of  the 
Trinity.  Thus  it  is  at  every  step,  in  every  clime,  and  at  all  ages, 
Man  has  lived,  and  is  now  living  in  the  very  shadow  of  the  Trinity. 
Let  the  so-called  scientific  men  of  the  age  deny  the  existence  of  the 
God  who  created  them  ;  let  them  lose  themselves  in  the  labyrinths 
into  which  false  science  has  led  them ;  they  can  not,  no,  they  can  not 
help  feeling  in  their  inmost  souls  the  impenetration  of  the  Triune 
God.  His  presence  is  proclaimed  in  every  particle  of  matter  around 
us.  The  bright  spark  of  Intelligence  within  us  is  but  a  ray  thrown 
off  from  the  glorious  refulgence  of  the  Almighty.  Ah!  then,  let  us 
not  forget  our  omniscient  origin.  While  wandering  among  Nature's 
treasures  and  blissful  meads,  let  us  remember  the  Invisible  Cause, 
and  wait  patiently  for  the  time  when  the  mysterious  veil  will  be 
thrown  aside,  and  we  will  find  ourselves  in  the  ever-shining,  gladsome, 
loving,  eternal  splendors  of  the  Divine  Trinity. 

KATIE  A.  CARR. 
Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 


This  little  poem  is  supposed  to  have  been  drifted  from  the  blue 
above,  where  a  loved  soul  has  found  anchorage. 


ho 


o 


If  thou  hadst  known,  0  loyal  heart, 
That  soon,  so  soon,  the  shadows  fell, 
Thou  couldst  not  then  have  played  a  part 
More  kindly  just  ;  the  thought  still  lives, 
Through  all  the  days  remembered  well, 
Within  the  sacred  guard  of  one, 
Whom  thou  hast  known. 

Whom  though  hast  known,  yet  scarcely  knew, 
For  all  the  tenderness  that  dwelt 
Beneath  the  outward  calm  so  true, 
Told  naught  of  hidden  depth,  so  felt 
That  slightest  tone,  or  speech  of  thine, 
Had  power  to  stir  the  soul  of  one, 
Whom  thou  hast  known. 

No  matter  where  thy  pathway  hies, 
To  strange,  mysterious  land  unknown, 
Or  full  in  God's  bless'd  presence  lies, 
Thy  thought  will  linger  round  the  Throne 
And  there  'twill  be  my  sweetest  prayer 
To  link  thy  name,  with  that  of  one, 
Whom  thou  hast  known. 


AN  ANSWER   TO   CHRISTIAN  REID'S  "REGRET"  135 

For  loyal  e'er  I've  been,  and  long 
And  constant  still  my  heart  shall  be  ; 
No  earth-born  chains  are  half  so  strong 
As  links  formed  by  eternity. 
Now,  all  the  years  which  love  may  give, 
Thy  mem'ry  sweetens  for  the  one, 
Whom  thou  hast  known. 

0  friend,  look  up,  and  mourn  no  more, 
The  whitening  clouds  that  o'er  thee  roam, 
Are  but  the  snowy,  golden  floor 
That  hides  from  mortal  gaze  the  dome 
So  steadfast  blue  that  bends  and  bids 
Thee  smile  and  comfort  find,  in  one, 
Whom  thou  hast  known. 

For  hearts  grow  strong  through  grief  and  pain, 
The  mystic  crucible  is  this 
That  purifies  from  earthly  stain, 
And  love  grows  fair  and  does  dismiss 
All  dross  ;  it  brightens  in  the  light 
That  shines  on  thee  and  on  the  one, 
Whom  thou  hast  known. 

Thy  hand  across  the  gulf  of  years, 
A  pledge  of  thought  that  bridges  space, 
A  token  now  that  knows  no  fears, 
That  thrills  our  souls  as  they  embrace. 
Awake  to  knowledge  of  the  truth, 
That  I  am  still  the  faithful  one, 
Whom  thou  hast  known. 


airjorja 


*'  O  south -land,  O  dream-land,  with  cycle  of  green 

O  moon-light  enchanted  by  mocking-bird's  song ; 
Cool  sea-winds,  fair  mountains,  the  fruitland  between 

The  pepper  trees  shade,  and  the  sunny  days  long 
0  land,  of  my  love,  in  thy  heart  may  I  rest." 

The  very  name  brings  a  perfume  of  almond  and  orange  blos- 
soms— while  one  sees  clinging  to  each  support  the  tender  grapevines, 
festooning  themselves  in  a  thousand  fantastic  forms — away  in  the 
distance  stretch  the  thickets  of  wild  mustard. 

Look  at  this  beautiful  picture  of  that  Home  so  graphically 
described  by  Helen  Hunt :  "  Its  windows  open  on  the  garden,  and 
the  doorway  faces  the  east."  "  Between  the  veranda  and  the  river 
meadows,  all  was  garden,  orange  grove  and  almond  orchard  ;  the 
orange  grove  always  green,  never  without  snowy  bloom  or  golden 
fruit ;  the  garden  never  without  flowers,  summer  or  winter  ;  and  the 
almond  orchard  in  early  spring  a  fluttery  canopy  of  pink  and  white 
petals.  On  either  hand  stretched  away  other  orchards, — pear, 
peach,  apricot,  apple,  pomegranate,  and  beyond  these,  vineyards. 
Nothing  to  be  seen  but  verdure  or  bloom,  or  fruit,  at  whatever  time 
of  year  you  sat  on  the  south  veranda." 

Does  not  this  vivid  picture  portray  the  features  of  every  land- 
scape throughout  the  magnificent  Southern  valley  which  yields 
with  the  luxuriance  of  the  fabled  age — fair  Garden  of  the  Hesperides 
with  its  wealth  of  magic  golden  fruit,  guarded  not  by  the  dragon  of 
old,  but  by  myriads  of  angels  hovering  with  a  special  delectation 
o'er  the  valley  of  Los  Angeles. 

136 


W  - 

->  O 

fc  O 

O  tn 

tft  W 

w  H 

a 

S3 

w  < 

s  g 


• 


RAJ10NA  137 

A  thrilling  sadness  lingers  round  thy  name  0  Ramona,  causing 
one  to  pause  and  wander  back  to  the  early  days  of  California,  when 
the  dusky  sons  of  the  forest  were  rulers  of  the  sod.  Scarcely  a  tract 
of  land  that  does  not  teem  with  reminiscences  of  this  period  ;  like  a 
chain,  the  Missions  link  themselves  through  the  land;  each  in  itself 
placed  where  Nature's  smiles  are  fairest. 

Just  within  call  of  the  silver  chime  of  the  old  San  Gabriel,  a 
new  city  has  risen,  bearing  the  name  of  Ramona,  her  highest  emin- 
ence crowned  by  a  Convent,  filled  with  busy  workers — courageous 
successors  of  the  toilers  of  old.  Yonder  San  Jacinto  lies  purple  and 
hazy  in  the  distance,  while  snow-capped  "Baldy"  keeps  constant 
guard  over  the  peaceful  valley  so  quietly  resting  below. 

Fair  Italy  with  her  far-famed  mountains  and  picturesque  sites 
is  alone  a  rival  of  this  gem  of  our  Californian  land — 

But  fairer  than  the  blossoms  of  the  south  are  the  souls  of  little 
children,  and  our  clime  so  favored  in  every  respect  lacks  not  this 
crowning.  Guide  then  these  little  feet,  0  sister -band,  that  they  falter 
not — lead  on  to  the  portals  of  Heaven,  and  this  our  Home,  will  truly 
be  the  vestibule  of  Paradise. 


I  often  wonder  if  after  all  old  memories  have  more  of  joy  than  of 
pain?     'Tis  sometimes  hard  to  revisit  scenes  of  happier  days. 

—K.  F. 


Festival  m 


Never  did  a  more  promising  day  rise  on  Ramona's  fair  brow. 
Never  did  her  verdant  fields,  sunlit  hills  and  hoary  old  mountains 
appear  more  exultant  than  in  the  glow  and  beauty  of  her  first  relig- 
ious festival.  Heaven's  blessing  and  Earth's  loveliness  blending  in 
one  jubilant  harmony,  over  which  floats  the  grand  voice  of  the 
Catholic  Ritual  which  makes  of  this  a  day  of  golden  memories 
which  will  ever  be  sacred  to  the  pupils  of  this  school  and  to  the 
inhabitants  of  this  part  of  the  valley.  For  the  first  time  the  repre- 
sentative of  Christ  stands  with  uplifted  hands,  as  the  Savior  of  old, 
to  call  down  blessings  on  the  little  ones  of  the  flock  ;  that  was  a 
hallowed  festival  which  dawned  in  the  Jewish  heavens  eighteen 
centuries  ago,  and  now  Christ's  prelate  has  repeated  with  heart 
and  voice  the  Master's  wish  that  the  lambs  of  the  fold  should 
be  guarded  from  all  contaminating  influences.  For  what  should 
our  children  be,  but  angels  with  upraised  hands,  calling  down 
heaven's  graces  on  the  family  ?  And  what  greater  power  is  there 
with  God  than  their  childish  innocence  ?  The  philosophers  of  old 
called  a  man  great,  when,  with  his  gray  hairs  he  had  preserved  all 
the  freshness  and  beauty  of  his  childhood's  heart.  So  our  girls  and 
our  women  will  be  great  and  their  influence  will  be  ennobling,  if,  from 
their  pious  teachers  in  the  cloister  they  learn,  notwithstanding  the 
corrupting  influences  that  vitiate  the  atmosphere  which  surrounds 
them,  to  keep  their  hearts  and  mind  unsullied. 

Echoes  of  the  Past  ;  how  harmoniously  they  blend  with  the 
realities  of  the  Present  I  Looking  back  through  the  vista  of  years,  a 
quaint  but  hallowed  picture  meets  our  enraptured  gaze,  in  the  sim- 
ple, zealous  Padre,  the  untutored  Indian,  the  quiet  grazing  flocks — 

188 


THE  FIRST  RELIGIOUS  FESTIVAL  IX  RAMON  A 


139 


all  making  a  strange  contrast  with  this  busy,  progressive  age  of 
ours.  Yet,  the  grand  Catholic  principle,  the  yearnings  of  dear 
Mother  Church  for  the  salvation  of  souls,  underlie  all  this  rustic 
simplicity. 

To-day  we  ascend  to  a  higher  plane.  Forms  have  become  more 
refined,  culture  more  sought  after  ;  still  we  cling  to  the  teachings  of 
the  old  faith,  that  Religion  and  morals  are  the  basis  of  the  social 
fabric,  without  which  education  is  a  mere  sham,  and  without  which, 
woman,  who  has  such  a  grand  part  to  play  in  the  regenerating  of 
society  and  in  the  raising  of  tbge  moral  standard,  utterly  fails  in  the 
task  which  has  been  allotted  her  by  Divine  Providence. 

We  trust,  therefore,  to  realize  this  ideal}  in  the  young  ladies 
who  go  from  beyond  the  portals  of  this  Institution. 

We  thank  your  Lordship  most  heartily  for  the  high  solemnity 
you  have  lent  to  this  festival.  We  thank  the  generous  donors  who 
have  contributed  to  the  building  of  this  Institution  ;  the  Rev. 
Clergy,  friends  and  acquaintances,  who  have  enhanced  the  impor- 
tance of  this  occasion  by  their  kind  and  friendly  encouragement. 
We  thank  one  and  all  for  this  lovely  day  on  Convent  Hill,  which 
will  ever  be  "  a  thing  of  beauty  "  in  our  reminiscences,  and  there- 
fore, in  the  words  of  the  poet,  "  a  joy  forever." 

Read  by  Miss  EDITH  SHORE, 
On  the  occasion  of  the  Dedication  of  the  Ramona  Convent. 


Pray  tell  me,  philosopher  dreaming, 
Or  scientist  learned  and  wise, 

"What  is  the  wonderful  beauty 
That  shines  in  the  baby's  eyes? 

We  all  love  the  little  darlings, 
And  none  of  us  know  just  why, 

I  fear  you  lovers  of  learning 

Are  too  wordly  to  guess  if  you  try. 

And  rocking  the  tiny  cradle 
With  a  lullaby  soft  and  low 

The  answer  came  like  a  whisper 
To  the  secret  I  longed  to  know. 

The  depths  of  the  wee  eyes  vision 
A  glimmer  of  turquoise  blue — 

A  patch  of  heavenly  brightness 
Dipped  in  heavenly  dew. 

The  baby's  smile  is  surely, 

A  beam  of  the  sunshine  of  love, 

Caught  in  its  wings  as  it  fluttered 
To  eatth  from  its  cradle  above. 

The  meaningless  lisp  of  the  baby, 

Is  all  it  remembers  quite, 
Of  that  story  of  peaceful  promise 

It  sang  the  first  Christmas  night. 

140 


I  WONDER  141 

I  know  now  why  these  spirits 

Of  wonderful  baby-land, 
Creep  into  our  hearts  and  boldly 

Their  tenderest  love  demand. 

You  are  dear  little  cherubs  of  Paradise, 

Lost  in  a  world  of  sin  ; 
And  our  truest  peep  of  God's  glory, 
Is  the  glimmer  that  you  bring  in. 

LUCILE  EDWARDS. 
Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cat. 


Behold  the  mother  surrounded  by  her  children,  these  golden 
links  in  the  chain  of  Love  that  bind  her  to  the  earth,  but  the  fetters 
are  pleasant  and  not  again  for  wealth  untold  would  she  be  free.  As 
she  and  her  little  ones  watch  the  dusky  shadows  of  night  falling 
upon  the  earth,  I  mark  that  the  mother  keeps  the  thoughtful  eyes 
of  the  maiden  and  the  happy  smile  of  childhood's  bright  day.  As 
they  gaze  upon  the  stars  that  come  forth  one  by  one  and  she  tells 
them  of  that  Home  beyond  the  skies,  the  little  eyes  are  filled  with 
wonder  and  the  little  hearts  with  awe.  Later  with  unutterable  ten- 
derness and  a  silent  prayer  for  her  darlings,  she  bends  over  them  as 
they  lie  in  the  slumbers  of  innocence,  then  kneeling,  how  fervent  is 
her  prayer!  Self  is  forgotten — her  only  cry  is  for  her  children. 
How  steadfast,  how  tender,  is  a  mother's  love.  Truly  has  it  been 
said  "it  is  like  no  other  love."  How  patient  with  us  in  sickness, 
how  true  in  misfortune's  dark  hour  I  Her  heart  is  our  asylum  in 
our  troubles,  her  counsel  is  as  balm  to  the  heart  seared  and  scorched 
by  passion's  stormy  breath.  0  ye  Mothers,  shall  your  Children  ever 
know  the  tears  that  you  have  shed  for  them,  the  pains  you  have 
endured  for  them,  or  the  swords  of  sorrow  they  have  plunged  into 
your  hearts!  Ah,  never!  God  alone  knows  and  to  Him  your  suffer- 
ings are  as  pearls  beyond  price. — Mamie  Lafferty. 


rr-*> 

^•spiders 

^     . 

When  Summer  comes,  and  the  days  are  warm  and  dreamy, 
perhaps  you  will  decide  to  go  to  the  arbor  and  be  lazy.  You 
acknowledge  that  you  have  an  especial  fondness  for  this  arbor  so 
shady  and  quiet,  and  apparently  the  Spiders  are  fond  of  it,  too;  for 
there  are  thousands  of  them  there,  with  whole  villages  of  their 
webby  homes  stretched  in  the  foliage  around  you. 

There  happens  to  swing  amid  the  shadows  of  this  peaceful 
arbor,  quite  the  dreamiest  of  hammocks,  and,  as  you  lie  entangled 
in  it,  looking  like  an  entrapped  butterfly  in  a  colossal  spider-web, 
you  slowly,  half  unconsciously  begin  a  mute  friendship  with  those 
queer,  black,  ugly  things  that  everyone  abhors — the  Spiders.  Soon 
you  begin  to  "  weave  a  web  of  similes  "about  them,  and  in  that  web 
they  grow  like  so  many  things,  and  take  so  many  forms,  that  you 
almost  doubt  whether  they  will  ever  appear  to  you  again  the  plain, 
old',  ugly  things  that  you  went  through  childhood  fearing. 

Now  and  then  you  feel  quite  compassionate  toward  Spiders, 
and  think  them  abused  and  ill-treated  far  oftener  than  they  deserve, 
though  you  acknowledge  that  at  times,  they  certainly  look  and  are 
most  villainous.  You  are  even  quite  prejudiced  against  a  certain 
class  that  live  in  those  irregularly  pitched,  dusty,  cat-a- 
cornered  webs,  for  these  Spiders  always  seem  to  be  making  eyes  at 
passdng  flys,  and  plotting  murderous  assaults  upon  them;  or  plan- 
ning schemes  for  kidnapping  young  and  innocent  insects.  To  this 
despicable  set,  also  belong  what  you  call  Witchspiders,  for  there 
are  some  that  look  wonderfully  like  witches,  as  they  sit  at  the  door 
of  their  little  round  cells,  with  their  weird  fingers  stretched  out 
over  their  webs,  in  which  you  think  they  must  weave  strange 
stories,  fates  and  fortunes,  which  they  spread  out  to  tempt  the  un- 
wary winged  traveler  to  pause  and  read.  Alas  for  him  if  he  does, 
for  he  will  never  go  forth  again  to  reveal  them  I 

142 


SPIDERS  143 

But  the  other  Spiders!  those  that  build  fine  skeleton  webs, 
round  in  shape,  which  they  generally  weave  over  open  spaces.  This 
class  you  are  sure  must  be  of  higher  instinct.  You  love  to  watch 
their  lovely  webs  so  patiently,  skillfully  and  beautifully  woven. 
You  look  up  and  see  them  now  stretched  over  bits  of  light  that  seem 
to  be  condensed  as  they  pass  through  the  thick  foliage,  and  grow 
brighter,  so  bright,  that  they  seem  to  your  fancy,  miniature  suns  in 
a  sky  of  green  ;  and  the  Spiders  like  mimic  transits,  as  they  move 
in  their  webby  orbits  over  the  suns  among  the  leaves.  You  certainly 
take  great  pleasure  in  watching  these  spider-transits,  and  you  are 
always  calling  these  leg-radiating  stars,  "queer  things."  You  have 
just  turned  and  made  yourself  quite  uncomfortable  in  your  hammock, 
to  get  a  better  look  at  one  of  the  "  queer  things,"  that  is  languidly 
strolling  over  the  woven  floor  of  a  web  quite  close  to  you.  What 
mute  enjoyment  he  seems  to  be  taking  in  the  gauzy  perfection  of  his 
"  web-spun  castle  in  the  air."  You  feel  quite  sad  when  you  think 
of  some  thoughtless  wind,  or  heedless  hand  ever  destroying  it  ; 
and  yet  how  many  webs  just  as  beautiful,  seem  ever  doomed  for 
destruction  :  but  soon  the  patient  Spider  will  weave  a  new  web  over 
the  ruins  of  the  old.  Ah,  this  is  a  long,  long  thought  for  you,  so 
long,  that  though  the  shadows  have  begun  to  lengthen,  they  fall  upon 
you  unheeded  ;  nor  do  you  see  them  weave  themselves  into  a  criss- 
cross web  upon  the  ground,  and  in  that  web  they  play  with  your 
shadow  image  entangled  there.  Still  you  look  as  if  you  felt  the 
influence  of  some  binding  charm,  you  are  so  quiet,  so  thoughtful. 

You  may  have  finished  your  long,  long  thought,  perhaps  only 
to  begin  another.  0  bewildering  Spiders!  they  are  a  puzzle  of  legs 
and  webs,  but  you  are  determined  to  solve  it.  But  not  now,  for 
the  twilight  has  come  and  is  quickly  putting  away  the  webs  and 
shadows  into  the  dark,  and  your  thoughts  about  to  finish  their  ram- 
ble, have  come  home  like  tired  birds  from  their  fancy  flight  among 
the  webs  and  Spiders,  weary,  silent.  Ah,  they  will  be  wiser  birds 
to-morrow  and  stay  at  home,  and  then  perhaps  they  will  sing  you 
an  oft  repeated  song  of  "hopes  and  fears''  which  will  bring  you  back 


144  SILVER  JUBILEE  MEMORIAL 

to  Reality,  that  you  may  there  recall  that  half- forgotten,  half- woven 
web, — your  life.  Sacred  web  of  thoughts  and  acts,  is  it  ever  to  lie 
tangled  with  hopes  and  fears?  Is  there  no  moral  Spider  within  you 
to  smooth  it  out,  no  patient  will  to  weave  a  better  web  to-morrow 
than  the  one  that  was  woven  to-day?  Perhaps  to-morrow  will  tell, 
but  before  then  you  will  have  blessed  the  Spiders,  and  slowly  made 
the  confession  that  they  were  wonderfully  wise  old  teachers  when 
they  gave  you  their  web  for  a  lesson. 

CONSTANCE  MCKEAND. 
Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal. 


Courage  I  faint  heart,  fear  not  the  burden 

That  is  laid  on  your  soul  to-night  ; 
A  comforting  angel  is  near  you 

Who  will  pity  and  make  it  seem  light. 

For  with  looks  uplifted  to  Heaven, 

His  home  and  yours  too,  you  know, 
He  is  asking  the  Master  to  strengthen 

The  soul  He  is  striking  so  low. 

He  hears  the  heart  moan,  and  wonders 

That  such  should  be  thine  to  bear, 
Ah  !  the  thought  comes  quickly  after — 

His  Son  did  a  thorn-crown  wear. 

Then,  never  more  seek  to  wander, 

Be  cheerful  in  sunshine  and  rain, 
Content  that  the -Father  looks  on  thee, 

To  see  if  His  child  thou'lt  remain. 

Courage  1  then,  faint  heart,  never  despair  ; 

Courage  I  and  wait  for  the  morrow, 
When  the  dull  clouds  of  care  shall  vanish  away, 

Thou  wilt  wonder  what  wa^  thy  sorrow. — Kate  L.  O'Neill. 


pielal  \?eil  Pall, 


I  saw  it  when  the  moonlight  kissed  it 

With  pensive  beam  and  fair, 
Weaving  with  bright  noiseless  fingers 

Diamonds  in  its  flowing  hair. 
I  saw  it  when  the  moonlight  crowned  it 

With  a  halo  soft  of  light, 
While  its  gentle  voice  sang  softly 

Love  songs  to  the  peaceful  night. 
I  heard  its  voice  far  in  the  distance 

Murmuring  tenderly  and  sweet, 
Echoing  through  the  lonely  mountains 

Like  the  tread  of  fairest  feet. 

Sweetest  waters  of  the  Valley! 

Is  thy  source  far  in  the  skies, 
In  some  cloud  that  crowns  some  mountain 

Rising  vast  before  mine  eyes? 
Ah!  methinks  the  angels  passing 

Drink  beside  thy  limpid  wave, 
And  from  their  bright  lips  thou  stol'st 

Thy  love  songs  tender  and  grave. 
Ay!  methinks  their  lips  have  taught  thee 

The  restful  song  thy  sweet  voice  sings, 
And  thy  glistening,  fleecy  whiteness, 

Thou  didst  steal  from  their  white  wings. 


JOSEPHINE  HALE. 


Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cal, 

10  145 


Down,  down  comes  the  light-footed  snow,  covering  a  green 
California  landscape.  Nearly  fifteen  years  have  I  lived  on  the  smil- 
ing Pacific  Coast  and  never  yet  has  the  soft,  feathery,  dove-like  snow 
visited  us.  It  vests  our  trees  and  shrubs  in  a  light  glimmering 
mantle,  and  completely  envelops  the  long  cypress  hedge  in  a  pure 
valenciennes-lace,  looped  up  here  and  there  by  a  refractory  twig 
that  has  protested  against  this  new  suit  of  white  so  strange  yet  so 
inexpressibly  beautiful.  It  is  an  Eastern  picture  causing  all  our 
thoughts  to  fly  to  the  home  of  our  youth,  and  making  our  fingers 
tingle  for  a  snow-ball  frolic.  Eastern  I  say,  yet  not  so,  because  the 
jolly  snow-elves  have  come  on  a  surprise-party  and  instead  of  cloth- 
ing bare  branches,  they  try  to  hide  the  emerald  perennial  verdure 
that  peeps  out  everywhere  and  laughs  at  them.  The  haughty  ever- 
greens and  everlastings  repel  such  liberties  and  rise  out  of  the  snow 
carpet.  Here  is  a  patch  of  lovely  green  grass  softly  kissed  by  the 
fleecy  crystals. 

And  the  flowers,  oh!  the  sweet  flowers!  There  I  spy  the  red- 
hooded  nasturtiums  hiding,  not  under  the  smooth  coverlet,  but 
peeping  out  on  the  world  at  large.  Here  that  creamy  beauty,  the 
tea-rose,  inclines  its  head  under  the  great  load,  and  the  sweet  little 
buds  that  had  mistaken  winter  for  spring  will  not  believe  their  eyes. 
In  every  direction  the  trailing  vines  shake  out  their  long  tendrils  in 
the  snowy  air.  The  scarlet  flowers  of  the  passion-vine  on  the  grotto 
of  Our  Lady,  lay  their  cheeks  on  the  white  stones.  How  sweet  the 
statue  of  the  Virgin  looks  in  her  cloak  of  blue  'mid  those  immacu- 
late surroundings.  Every  one  exclaims:  "Oh!  I  hope  the  snow 
will  keep  till  to-morrow  "I  We  are  even  afraid  that  some  stray  sun- 

146 


LIVE   XOT   TO    YOURSELF  ALOM-:  147 

beam  will  come  and  destroy  our  glimmering  treasure.  Alas!  alas! 
it  will  soon  disappear.  I  see  it  already  losing  its  hold  on  the  roofs 
where  it  lies  so  secure  and  smiling.  The  weather  has  commenced 
to  drop  tears  over  our  disappointment.  Thus  with  all  our  earthly 
joys — ever  pleasing  and  ever-fleeting. 

May  the  New  Year  bring  us  no  deeper  sorrow. 

Oakland,  Dec.  31,  i88/. 


t° 


Swaying  in  the  soft  gentle  breath  of  morn,  with  the  sunbeams 
glinting  o'er  its  frail  form,  a  blushing  rose  sang  with  the  early 
choristers,  sang  in  the  voice  of  perfume  :  "  I  live  not  for  myself 
alone,  but  even  my  little  life  has  a  loving  mission  to  fulfill  in  God's 
great  field  of  labor.  I  live  to  flood  the  atmosphere  with  my  sweetest 
incense,  and  to  speak  and  bring  happiness  to  man's  immortal  soul. 
In  the  sunny  tresses  of  the  maiden  I  quietly  nestle,  and  softly  blush 
on  the  heaving  bosom  of  the  bride.  Pale  and  silent  1  kiss  the 
coffin-lid  of  the  dead,  or  pleading  at  Our  Lady's  feet,  I  breathe  a 
prayerful  incense.  Into  my  dewy  depths  the  fairy  humming-bird 
dips  its  dainty  bill  and  darts  on  its  gleaming  way,  refreshed  with 
the  nectar  of  my  sweets.  To  the  toiling  bee  I  give  the  cloying  honey 
with  which  he  delights  the  taste  of  man.  My  odorous  beauty  breathes 
forth  bright,  gentle,  holy  thoughts,  like  a  wreath  of  sunshine  on  life's 
troubled  hours.  Thus  ever  is  my  mission  unselfish,  thus  ever  do  my 
delicate  petals  and  dewy  cup  speak  of  God's  goodness  and  beauty  ; 


148  SILVER   JUBILEE   MEMORIAL 

and,  whether  born  in  the  tender  sunshine  or  in  the  sombre  shadow, 
not  for  myself  alone  do  I  bud  and  blossom  here,  but  to  brighten 
this  tear-dimmed  earth. 

High  up  on  the  bleak  mountain-side,  dim  in  the  purple-blue 
distance,  towers,  lone  and  sad,  an  old  oak-tree,  waving  its  leafy 
banners  to  and  fro.  As  it  stands  in  the  midst  of  desolation  with 
nothing  in  this  barren  spot  to  which  it  can  bring  joy,  something 
within  you  whispers  that  surely  this  tree  lives  to  itself.  "  Not  so," 
indignantly  rustles  the  oak,  "  God  never  made  me  for  a  purpose  so 
small.  Four  score  and  ten  springs  have  smiled  upon  me,  four  score 
and  ten  summers  have  danced  lightly  o'er  my  boughs,  while  full  as 
many  autumns  have  touched  my  mantle  with  softest  tints  of  crim- 
son, gold  and  purple,  and  died  into  the  bleakness  of-  winter. 
Through  all  these  years  I  have  stood  firm  and  undaunted,  welcoming 
to  my  heart  all  who  sought  a  refuge  there,  and  into  my  arms  each 
night  I  gathered  the  noisy  birds  and  rocked  them  to  sleep.  In  the 
still  summer  days  when  the  sun  casts  its  fevered  rays  upon  the 
parched  earth,  the  panting  flocks  fly  to  me  and  fall  at  my  feet  in 
the  grateful  shade  which  my  waving  branches  cast  upon  them.  In 
my  bosom  the  soaring  eagle  builds  his  lonely  nest,  and  when  wintry 
storms  shake  me  to  my  very  roots,  the  proud  bird  rests  secure  in 
the  shelter  of  my  strong  arms.  In  the  dreamy  summer-time 
the  gauzy-winged  butterfly  flutters  through  the  lace-work  of  my 
leaves  and  floats  away  again  like  a  bright-colored  blossom  of  the  air. 
When  the  angry  elements  have  united  in  war  against  each  other, 
thunderbolts  have  burst  at  my  feet,  while  my  bosom  has  been  seared 
and  pierced  by  the  lightning  stroke  which  otherwise  would  have 
destroyed  the  weary  traveller.  The  shrieking  winds  wrest  from  me 
my  wealth  of  acorns  and  strew  them  over  the  earth.  Years  roll  on, 
and  what  were  once  those  tiny  cups  are  now  countless  groves  of  trees 
which  claim  me  as  their  parent.  When  God  wills  that  I  shall  stand 
no  longer,  I  shall  fall  by  the  hand  of  man  and  I  will  go  to  strengthen 
his  ship  which  makes  him  lord  of  the  ocean.  And  when  the  howling 
winds  moan  across  the  dreary  moor,  I  will  crackle  upon  the  ample 


LIVE  NOT  TO   YOURSELF  ALONE  149 

hearth  and  cast  a  ruddy  glow  upon  the  happy  faces  grouped  around 
me.  Now  tell  me,  thoughtless  one,  if  I  live  for  myself." 

Speak  to  the  rushing  streamlet  that,  blithe  and  boisterous 
dances  adown  the  slanting  hill.  Now  sparkling  in  the  light,  now 
sombre  in  the  shadow,  ever  it  bounds  on  heeding  naught.  But  its 
merry  voice  rings  out  on  the  air,  and  as  it  bubbles  over  rock  and 
pebble,  kissing  fern  and  blossom,  its  sweet  song  comes  to  me:  "Mid 
snow-silvered  precipices  I  found  my  icy  course;  but  tired  of  my 
useless  life  so  far  above  the  earth,  I  broke  my  chilly  fetters  and  in 
the  quiet  of  midnight  I  plunged  down  the  snow-mantled  crags. 
Along  my  winding  way  I  scatter  life  and  health  on  every  side.  I 
ripple  through  the  grassy  meads  and  leave  them  gay  with  flowers. 
I  meander  through  the  pleasant  valleys  and  sweeten  the  languid  air 
in  dreamy  June,  while  trom  the  rustling  grasses  that  line  my 
margin,  the  lark  soars  to  greet  the  rising  sun.  I  cheer  the  drooping 
summer  flowers,  refresh  the  thirsty  cattle  and  weary  birds,  and 
sprinkle  with  modest  daisies  the  golden  corn  fields.  The  sun  loves 
me  and  draws  me  to  him  in  waves  of  feathery  vapor,  and  in  the 
fresh  spring  days  I  float  in  great  fleecy  clouds  through  the  blue 
expanse  above.  A  chilly  wind  disturbs  my  garnered  drops  and  lol 
abrupt  and  loud  I  fall  as  glistening  rain.  I  jewel  the  dainty  blue-bell 
with  my  sparkling  drops,  and  at  sunrise,  behold  I  have  begemmed 
every  blade  of  the  lowly  grass.  Thus  ever  will  I  comfort  man,  and 
I  will  rise  and  fall,  rise  and  fall  till  my  loving  mission  is  over." 

Walk  forth  in  the  still  calm  night  beneath  the  great  dome  of 
the  sky;  gaze  upward  upon  that  deep-blue  expanse  gleaming  with 
color  and  brilliancy;  see  that  distant  star  which  beams  tranquilly 
and  softly  upon  you;  whisper  your  question  upon  the  midnight  air, 
and  the  answer  comes  down  the  path  of  light:  "  Not  for  myself 
alone  do  I  rise  and  set  and  sparkle  in  the  diadem  of  the  night.  I 
have  a  wondrous  work  to  perform — the  holding  together  of  a  myriad 
of  shining  worlds.  My  rays  beam  alike  on  the  great  and  the  lowly, 
on  the  rich  and  the  poor,  bringing  comfort  to  all.  Many  a  time 
have  I  guided  the  poor  lost  sailor,  from  a  hopeless  realm  of  waters 


150  SILVER  JUBILEE  MEMORIAL 

to  his  home  and  waiting  mother.  I  am  a  mighty  world  supporting 
upon  my  bosom  countless  immortal  beings  worshipping  the  same 
Creator  as  you.  Within  my  tiny  zone  I  will  ever  linger,  and  with 
my  bleak  mountains  and  shadowy  valleys,  will  ever  sing  my  part 
in  the  harmony  of  the  spheres.  I  do  not  merely  gem  the  sky,  but 
my  far-off  lights  are  a  constant  reminder  to  man  of  his  heavenly 
home  which  waits  ever  ready  for  his  coming.  Upon  the  jetty 
coronet  of  night  I  write  in  letters  of  gold  the  power  and  goodness, 
and  majesty,  of  Him,  who  formed  me  and  my  myriad  sisters,  for  the 
service  of  man.'; 

For  Him  was  created  every  little  tlower  that  blows,  every  breeze 
that  carries  its  sweet  burden  of  incense  over  the  earth,  every  tendril 
of  the  clinging  vine,  every  dewdrop  glistening  in  the  blue-bell  cup: 
and  the  lesson  they  teach  is  one  of  unselfishness  and  duty. 

Ah!  man,  "  thou  who  art  earth's  honored  priest,"  thou  the  chief 
guest  at  love's  ungrudging  feast  of  beauty,  canst  thou  live  blindly 
to  thyself  alone?  Spurn  self,  put  it  aside,  and  live  only  to  God 
and  thy  neighbor. 

NELLIE  WHITE,         ZOE  CHADWICK. 

Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  Oakland,  Cat. 


\\l<z  6ifh  of  a  gmile 


Have  you  ever  known  what  it  was  to  feel  the  influence  of  a 
smile?  Surely  you  have  ;  and  not  knowing  the  workings  of  your 
young,  tender  heart,  could  not  guess  exactly  what  it  was  that  gave 
such  happiness.  Yes  ;  smiles  are  truly  as  the  breath  of  heaven, 
when  given  to  some  sorrow  or  care-worn  heart.  In  school,  dear 
children,  has  not  your  teacher's  smile  of  approval  sent  a  thrill 


THE   LOST  CHORD  151 

through  your  soul  more  precious  than  all  rewards,  and  have  you 
not  gone  home  with  a  heart  full  of  content  and  peaceful  joy  ?  Let 
me  tell  you  a  little  incident  of  recent  occurrence.  Death  had 
touched  the  brow  of  a  young  girl  of  some  thirteen  years.  Into  the 
crowded  room  where  the  dead  child  lay,  came  a  girl  of  about  the 
same  age  ;  her  face  bore  the  look  of  those  who  carry  sorrow  even  in 
the  heart  of  their  youth.  She  handed  a  little  bouquet  to  one  present, 
saying,  "  I  am  sorry  I  could  not  give  her  more  ;  although  we  never 
spoke,  yet  she  always  smiled  at  me  so  kindly  that  I  brought  her 
this  ;  I  am  so  sorry  she  is  dead;"  and  left  as  quietly  as  she  entered. 
If  you  could  know  how  much  this  "  gift  of  a  smile  r  cheers  a  heart, 
you  would  be  more  generous  with  your  smiles,  particularly  to  the 
poor  and  unfortunate.  Let  not  riches  buy  your  smiles,  but  remem- 
ber Jesus  smiled  on  the  unfortunate.  You  do  it  in  His  imitation. 

MARY  J.  DOLAN. 

Convent  of  the  Holy  Names,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 


Somewhere  in  the  vast  expanse  between  heaven's  blue  and  the 
chaos  of  earth,  there  is  a  chord  trembling  and  lone;  it  is  in  vain 
we  search  for  it,  we  hear  the  faint  tones  murmuring  through  the 
long  crystal  corridors  of  space,  but  it  is  only  an  echo,  and  then  the 
melody  is  gone.  The  great  harp  of  the  universe,  whose  strings 
were  once  tuned  in  perfect  harmony,  now  gives  forth  only  un- 
finished melodies,  since  the  rude  hand  of  Sin  broke  the  chord  of 
obedience  to  the  Creator;  but  far  away  in  remote  space,  that  one 
lost  chord  ever  faintly  murmurs  its  repinings  for  its  golden  sister 
strings. 


152  SILVER    JUBILEE   MEMORIAL 

Every  day,  and  in  every  stage  of  life,  from  the  rosy-tinted 
dawn  of  childhood,  to  the  heavy-clouded  mid-day  of  manhood, 
and  still  farther  on  to  the  days  colored  by  the  last  mellow  rays  of 
the  setting  sun  of  life,  poor  mortals  search  in  vain  for  this  lost 
chord  which  would  render  complete  the  harmony  of  their  life.  In 
infancy,  the  soul's  young  harp,  twined  with  Purity's  fairest  flowers, 
vibrates  with  the  music  of  innocence,  but  some  careless  hand 
snaps  one  of  the  delicate  strings,  and,  alas  !  the  harmony  is  broken 
and  the  chord  is  lost.  Yet  despair  not,  fair  child,  some  day  when 
the  harp  of  life  is  silent,  back  from  its  mystic  wanderings  will 
come  that  absent  string  and  the  soul  will  vibrate  with  heavenly 
music. 

In  the  happy  circle  that  lingers  round  the  fireside,  we  miss  a 
tone  from  the  sweet  song  of  happiness,  one  tone  which  is  wanting  to 
complete  the  rich  harmony.  The  vacant  chair  murmurs  in  sad, 
minor  notes  of  one  who  has  crossed  over  the  silver  bridge  which 
spans  the  dark  waters  of  Eternity,  to  the  heavenly  shore  from 
which,  through  the  azure  corridor  lighted  by  the  glittering  gems, 
comes  the  faint  echo  of  the  missing  chord.  It  is  in  vain  we  try  to 
catch  it,  it  is  gone  like  the  shadow  of  an  angel's  wing,  and  we  only 
know  that  some  day  our  harp  will  be  completed. 

Later  on  we  meet  a  seeker  for  the  missing  link  to  the  chain  of 
harmony,  in  the  silver-haired  man,  whose  harp  is  now  bathed  in 
the  rays  of  light  from  the  heavenly  shore,  as  his  bark  gently  glides 
down  the  ebbing  stream,  but  from  among  its  golden  strings  one  is 
missing.  Soon,  ah!  soon,  will  angel  hands  replace  the  missing 
chord,  and  tune  again  the  soul's  rich  harp  to  breathe  newer,  rarer, 
sweeter  tones. 

Sometimes  when  from  the  dusky  hand  of  night,  the  shadows  of 
Twilight  are  softly  falling,  and  the  heart's  secret  cares  and  sorrows 
are  wooed  to  rest  by  the  mystic  voice  of  Peace,  as  the  blossoms  are 
caressed  into  slumber  by  the  evening  breeze  and  all  Nature  seems  in 
one  sweet  dream,  strains  of  music  greet  our  ear,  and  our  spirit 
soars  away  on  Fancy's  wing  to  seek  the  lost  string  which  breaks  the 


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5 


ii>* 


THE  LOST  CHORD  153 

harmony.  In  rapturous  dreams  we  find  seraphic  beings,  bearing 
from  the  realms  of  bliss  the  missing  chord  ;  but  it  is  only  a  phan- 
tasy, and  we  wake  to  find,  as  before,  the  soul's  secret  harp  murmur- 
ing for  the  missing  link  of  harmony. 

How  beautiful  is  the  idea  of  the  "Music  of  the  Spheres!" 
Imagine  each  of  the  gems  that  appear  as  mere  glittering  points, 
giving  forth  melody  of  divinest  nature,  and  all  blending  in  harmony. 
That  is  a  concert  fit  only  for  the  pure  ears  of  angels,  it  is  far  too 
heavenly  for  the  gross  ear  of  man.  Yet  here  too,  one  tone  of  har- 
mony is  gone,  for  the  rude  touch  of  Sin  on  our  earth  has  broken 
the  chord  which  should  render  perfect  the  music,  and  not  till  it  be 
restored  by  the  all-powerful,  all-merciful  hand  of  God,  will  the 
melody,  which  now  sinks  of  its  own  heaviness,  rise  through  the 
azure  curtain  in  purest  praises  to  the  Eternal  Throne. 

Some  day  when  all  earth's  weary  wanderers  shall  stand  with 
their  broken  harps  on  the  brink  of  Eternity,  they  will  see  gleaming 
through  the  opening  portals,  the  lost  chord  which  has  rendered 
the  harmony  of  their  lives  incomplete,  and  when  the  past  years 
float. like  a  dreamy  panorama  before  their  eyes,  they  will  then  know 
that 

"  It  may  be  that  Death's  bright  angel, 

Will  speak  in  that  chord  again, 
It  may  be  that  only  in  Heaven, 
They  shall  hear  that  grand  AMEN!  " 

— A.  Proctor. 

FANNIE   CARROLL. 
Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Sacred  Heatt,  Oakland,  Cat. 


on  a  Fea^b  J)av 

-#- 

A  time-stained  volume,  quaint  and  old, 

And  musingly  I  turn  it  o'er, 
Perchance  those  pages  dark  with  mold, 

Strange  stories  tell  of  days  of  yore — 
Are  gemmed  with  words  and  thoughts  of  gold. 

Vain  is  the  hope  ;  all  interest  lost, 

The  gray  leaves  flutter  to  and  fro  ; 
But  ah  !  a  perfume  rare  is  tost, 

That  scents  those  dismal  pages  so — 
A  faded  bloom  with  memories  fraught. 

So  in  the  volume  of  the  year,  j 

There  hidden  lies  a  fragrant  rose  ; 
Over  the  gloomy  days,  and  drear, 

The  sweetest  of  incense  it  throws — 
"A  day  of  days  "  to  us  so  dear. 

Our  cherished  teacher's  feast  day  fair, 

Kich  with  fond  memories  of  the  past, 
Of  tender  words,  and  loving  care, 

Of  golden  hours  too  bright  to  last 
0  vanished  days,  so  sweet  and  rare! 

ANNIE  CAREY. 

Convent  of  the  Holy  Names,  San  /'"rancisco,  Cal. 


JL 


ih  v/a<  COR  he  rated 

(i.e.  ce- 


Look  upon  the  sea  at  the  dawn  of  a  summer's  day.  The  pale 
blue  waves,  tipped  by  the  rosy  hues  of  the  morning  light,  are  sing- 
ing their  hymns  of  praise  in  tones  of  sweetest  music.  The  golden 
beach  is  their  altar,  it  is  here  they  come  to  sing  and  pray,  and  then 
go  back  into  the  sea  to  come  again  and  go  once  more,  for,  to  and  fro, 
has  Heaven  marked  the  pathway  of  the  waves  on  the  avenues  of 
time.  And  when  the  sun  has  set,  and  the  sable  shadows  have  fallen, 
and  myriads  of  stars  are  crowning  the  brow  of  night,  behold  those 
children  of  the  deep,  clad  in  dark  blue  garments  and  decked  with 
the  jewels  that  Heaven  has  lent  themj  and  listen  to  their  glorious 
chant.  How  sublime!  how  seemingly  unearthly!  can  it  be  the 
echo's  own  refrain  of  the  immortal  Te  Deum  of  Paradise? 

0  beautiful  waves  upon  a  summer  sea!  ye  are  the  image  of  sin- 
less hearts  singing  in  grateful  accents  at  the  Feet  of  God  the  prelude 
of  everlasting  life. 

But  the  sea  is  not  always  tranquil,  for  it  is  a  mirror  of  all 
men's  hearts,  and  these  differ  as  the  vicissitudes  of  light  and  shade. 

Watch  the  birds  with  snowy  wings  flying  westward  over  the 
waves  into  the  evening  sun.  In  the  east  hear  the  muffled  sounds  of 
the  tempest's  roar.  Suddenly  the  sky  grows  dark  and  great  winds 
come.  Huge  billows  rise  and  dash  angrily  against  the  cliffs  in  cries 
of  wildest  agony.  It  is  the  fury  of  a  storm.  It  is  the  picture  of 
another  storm  upon  the  ocean  of  life,  when  the  winds  of  passion 
arise.  There  are  hearts  which  like  the  birds  fly  unto  the  Light 

155 


156  SILVER  JUBILEE  MEMORIAL 

when  the  threatening  sounds  are  heard  afar,  but  alas !  there  are  others, 
impetuous  as  the  waves,  that  strike  against  the  rocks  of  despair, 
and  fall  like  their  foam  into  the  sea. 

Let  us  leave  the  surface  of  the  deep  and  descend,  where  the 
tumult  of  winds  and  waves  is  all  unheard,  into  that  mysterious 
region  where  perpetual  silence  reigns,  and  where  untold  beauty  lives 
unseen  by  human  eye.  There  in  some  fair  garden  or  in  some  jeweled 
cave  lies  a  shell  filled  with  pearls  of  rarest  lustre.  It  is  the  book  in 
which  God  has  sweetly  written  the  simile  of  a  faithful  heart's  life 
and  recompense.  He  breathed  the  parable  into  the  ear  of  some 
Persian  poet  who  wrote  it  thus  in  his  book  of  meditations:  "The 
shell  was  not  filled  with  pearls  until  it  was  contented."  It  pictures 
the  home  of  a  tiny  life  whose  vital  spark  is  now  extinguished.  It 
tells  its  years  of  continuous  labor  and  of  patient  endurance,  gather- 
ing grains  of  sand  and  intruding  fragments,  perhaps  of  rock  or  of 
some  other  shell,  which  caused  it  pain,  and  how  it  ceased  not  from 
unrest,  until  of  each  it  had  formed  a  pearl  of  purest  splendor. 

O  happy  the  hearts  that  on  life's  great  ocean  gather  golden  deeds, 
afflictions  and  sorrows!  In  a  few  short  years  when  the  work  is 
accomplished,  what  joy  when  God  shall  open  the  shell  and  find 
it  filled  with  pearls;  these  alone  are  the  earthly  treasures  that  can 
purchase  immortality. 

ELIZA  OVIEDO. 

Convent  of  the  Holy  Names,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 


ho  •fUppil  aod  .Welcome  h°  J%\y 


Farewell  !  wayward,  laughing  April,  month  of  smiles  and 
tears.  We  had  grown  to  love  you,  when  you  ceased  to  be;  and  did 
you  not  love  us,  too?  Yes;  for  when  May  was  ushered  in  in  all 
the  dreamy  newness  of  life,  tears  of  regret,  I  ween,  at  leaving  us, 
still  lingered,  sparkling  like  so  many  diamonds  on  the  flowers. 
But  while  we  say,  "  Vale,  dear  April,"  we  would  thank  you  for  the 
many  joys  and  pleasures  you  brought  us;  and,  although  other 
months  may  bring  us  like  happiness,  like  joys,  like  pleasures,  still 
yours  will  ever  smile  with  softer  glow;  around  them  ever  shall 
circle  a  halo  of  wondrous  beauty,  studded  with  rarest  gems — the 
halo,  a  sunny  smile,  the  gems,  sparkling  tears.  What  crown  more 
bright  !  what  gems,  what  jewels  more  precious  ? 

Will  our  hearts  thus  eulogize  you,  sweet  May,  when  your 
course  is  run  ?  Oh  !  yes";  for  what  heart  that  loves  our  Blessed 
Mother,  can  fail  to  love  her  month  ?  What  poet  has  not  sung  the 
praises  of  this  month,  and  of  her  whose  name  it  bears  ?  What  a 
month  of  song,  of  pleasures  and  of  smiles!  What  a  joyous  time  for 
heart  and  soul!  How  happy,  how  light-hearted  we  feel  as  we 
wander  through  the  meadows  and  fields  of  clover,  or  climb  the  hills 
and  from  each  sunny  slope  cull  the  brightest,  fairest  flowers  !  How 
our  souls  rejoice,  when,  in  the  sweet  even-tide,  we  gather  round  her 
altars,  and  sing  the  hymns  of  praise  and  love  to  our  Mother  ! 

Charming  May  1  Each  year  we  welcome  her  just  as  heartily, 
even  though  the  rose  color  of  our  lives  be  blanched  to  snowy  white- 
ness, and  a  shaft  of  marble  records  a  grave  in  the  cemetery  of  our 
souls.  Sweet  herald  of  approaching  summer,  we  hail  you  I  We 
welcome  you  with  your  birds,  your  flowers,  your  soft  winds.  Your 
birds  we  shall  teach  to  carol  the  praise  of  our  Queen;  your  choicest 

157 


158  SILVER   JUBILEE   MEMORIAL 

flowers  we  shall  lay  at  her  feet;  and  your  winds — sweet  with 
much  kissing  of  the  roses,  shall  waft  fragrance  to  her  throne  above. 
Oh,  how  happy  we  shall  be,  if,  when  death's  cold  lips  have 
touched  ours,  whether  it  be  in  the  May  of  lives,  or  in  sullen,  dark 
November,  we  shall  go  straight  to  Mary's  feet,  there  to  sit  and  listen 
to  her  gentle  voice,  as  she  tells  us  how  much  she  has  ever  loved  us ; 
how  much  she  has  longed  to  have  her  children  near  her.  Oh,  hap- 
piness untold — thus  to  be  with  Mary  !  Oh,  quick,  the  hour  that 
will  cut  the  moorings  of  our  life-bark  and  set  it  adrift  on  the  home- 
going  tide. 

NORA  FITZGERALD. 
Convent  of  the  Holy  Names,  San  Ftancisco,  Cal. 


Many  an  nge  has  been  prolific  of  great  minds  and  lofty  geniuses, 
but  the  age  of  Elizabeth  surpasses  them  all,  not  only  in  the  number 
and  variety  of  the  master-minds  of  that  period,  but  especially  in 
this: — that  it  included  within  its  charmed  circle,  the  greatest  genius 
of  his  time,  and  it  may  be  of  all  time.  For  of  all  the  stars  in  that 
bright  galaxy  which  clustered  round  the  throne  of  Elizabeth, 
Shakespeare  shines  resplendent  and  solitary. 

Ages  had  come  and  gone,  before  Shakespeare  was,  and  ages  have 
passed  since  Shakespeare  has  been,  yet,  not  one  has  produced  a 
single  spirit,  so  lofty  in  genius  or  so  transcendent  in  glory.  Not 
one  is  there  fit  even  to  touch  the  hem  of  the  peculiar  robe,  with 
which  he  has  clothed  himself  in  his  immortal  conceptions,  and  by 


SHAKESPEARE  159 

which  we,  at  all  times  recognize  our  own  Shakespeare:  namely:  his 
power  of  depicting  human  life  and  human  affairs  and  all  their  ac- 
companying cares,  passions  and  fancies. 

Some  poets,  as  Milton  and  Dante  have  taken  grand  and  awful 
themes  for  their  songs.  They  ascend  into  the  very  heavens  and 
describe  the  scenes  thereof;  they  hold  converse  with  both  angels  and 
demons.  But  there  is  a  limit.  Their  genius  exhausts  itself,  and 
when  they  would  approach  the  earth,  they  stumble  and  totter  as 
though  they  did  not  know  their  way  amid  such  lowness. 

Others  "of  the  earth,  earthly"  have  not  the  wings  wherewith  to 
soar  to  higher  spheres,  and  nobler  climes.  They  find  in  the  good- 
ness and  beauty  of  earth,  something  of  that  greater  beauty  which 
attracts  their  brother  spirits  and  which  floating,  like  a  seraph,  twixt 
heaven  and  earth,  whilst  it  eludes,  still  leads  them  on.  For  poesy 
though  a  captive  here  below  has  its  true  home  above,  and  in  the 
hearts  where  it  makes  its  abode,  it  must  ever  create  that  longing  for 
the  higher  beauty  beyond.  Ah!  far  beyond  the  conception  of  those 
"lesser  lights,"  but  which  leaves  them  ever  watching  and  waiting 
and  striving  to  catch  the  "lost  chords"  of  the  heavenly  alleluias, 
amid  the  lowness  of  earth. 

With  Shakespeare  it  was  different,  nothing  was  so  high  that  he 
could  not  reach;  nothing  so  low  that  he  could  not  fathom,  nothing 
so  subtle  that  he  could  not  grasp;  nothing  so  grand  that  he  could 
not  comprehend;  nothing  so  beautiful  that  he  could  not  portray,  and 
nothing  so  complex,  that  he  could  not  divide  and  make  clear  and 
commingle  again  into  one  gorgeous  whole,  and  drape  and  fashion  it 
with  the  diverse  fancies  and  creations  of  his  fertile  brain,  until 
naught  was  left  untried  that  could  be  done,  and  naught  was  left 
unsaid,  that  could  be  sung. 

Nothing  daunted,  nothing  repelled  him.  He  handled  spirits 
and  mortals  with  the  same  vigorous  grasp,  and  they  danced  or 
moped  in  mirth  or  melancholy,  obedient  to  his  powerful  will,  por- 
trayed with  such  consummate  art  as  to  have  made  the  world  look  on 
in  amazement  and  wonder  for  more  than  three  hundred  years. 


160  SILVER  JUBILEE  MEMORIAL 

Hideous  witches,  wrapt  in  air,  taunt  and  prophesy;  spectral 
forms  appear  to  affright,  and  instruct  unto  vengeance  and  death; 
heart-withering  visions  with  their  dire  signs  appear,  to  torment  or 
predict,  whilst  fairies  gambol  and  revel  to  their  hearts'  content  in 
sunlit  glade  or  moon-tipped  grove. 

But  it  is  especially  in  depicting  all  that  pertains  to  man  and 
humanity  that  shows  forth  Shakespeare's  greatest  powers.  He 
becomes  as  it  were,  each  of  his  different  characters  in  turn.  He  is 
at  once  the  parricide,  the  jealous  husband,  the  trustful  woman,  the 
conspirator,  the  spy,  the  fickle  prince,  the  crafty  statesman,  the 
faithful  friend,  the  noble  lord,  the  mindful  servant,  the  supercilious 
knave.  They  pass  before  our  minds  in  ever  lengthening  procession; 
and  Shakespeare  stands  guard  over  all,  for  was  it  not  his  immortal 
pen  which  has  called  them  all  into  being?  Truly  is  he  great  in 
their  greatness.  Once  known  we  associate  with  their  vice  or  their 
virtue,  the  vices  and  virtues  of  their  kind. 

Wolsey  and  Macbeth  are  synonyms  of  ambition;  Othello  and 
lago,  of  jealousy  and  deceit;  Portia,  of  prudence,  discretion,  and  gen- 
erous love;  Bassanio  and  Antonia,  of  faithful,  noble  friendship; 
Hamlet,  of  indifference  and  indecision ;  Ophelia  of  despairing  love. 
Shylock  and  his  merciless  greed  of  gold,  Brutus  and  his  ingratitude, 
Katherine  and  her  untamed  anger  and  Cordelia  of  dauntless  truth 
and  noble  mind,  these  are  names,  which  are  blended  so  thoroughly 
with  the  aims  and  passions  of  the  characters  represented  that  it  is 
impossible  to  separate  the  one  from  the  other.  They  serve  as  land- 
marks, as  it  were,  showing  forth  the  forms  of  that  greater  beauty,  to 
be  found  only  as  the  whole  grand  vista  unfolds  before  us,  with  all 
its  diverse  scenery,  and  all  its  glorious  hues  and  images.  Each  step 
discloses  new  beauties,  until,  almost  inebriated,  we  stand  and  survey 
the  whole,  and  with  all  the  fires  of  enthusiasm  kindled  within  us, 
we  must  needs  cry  "enough!  " 

One  is  overwhelmed  when  contemplating  that  grand  mental 
power,  which  reflects,  as  in  a  mirror,  the  manifold  passions  and 
emotions,  the  heartfelt  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  human  heart,  for  all 


CARMELO  161 

time  is  enshrined  in  these  immortal  plays,  which  have  served  to  lift 
their  creator  to  the  very  skies,  above  all  other  men  and  leave  him 
there  in  solitary,  unique,  delightful  grandeur. 

KATE  L.  O'NEILL. 
Convent  of  the  Holy  Names,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 


The  quaint  old  town  of  Monterey  contains  many  objects  of 
interest  for  the  student  of  the  past.  There,  on  the  golden  shores 
of  the  Pacific,  are  ruins  that  speak  eloquently  of  devoted  zeal  and 
charity — relics  of  a  departed  race — among  them,  the  old  struc- 
ture known  as  Carmel  Mission.  Around  each  crumbling  wall  cling 
memories  of  the  days  when  the  good  Padres  struggled  and  toiled 
in  enduring  patience,  conquering  with  the  cross,  long  before  General 
Fremont  raised  the  American  flag  on  the  heights  of  Monterey. 

A  pleasant,  yet  mournful  feeling  is  aroused  when  gazing  upon 
a  ruin;  lessons  on  the  mutability  of  earthly  things,  the  littleness 
of  man,  come  to  us  as  we  observe  that  every  effort  to  make  himself 
immortal  only  mocks  him,  telling  forcibly  of  his  passing  existence. 

When  we  gaze  on  the  Missions,  thoughts  of  the  great,  the  good, 
the  noble  awaken  within  us,  and  when  we  see  these  relics  of  love 
and  tireless  zeal  shattered,  our  admiration  is  more  deeply  excited. 

The  Missions  of  California  stand  in  humble  silence  as  monu- 
ments of  the  devotedness  of  the  beloved  Padres.  They  are  found 
along  the  coast  from  San  Diego's  shore  to  San  Rafael's  forest;  their 
fallen  walls  and  crumbling  towers  speaking  pathetically  of  days  that 
are  no  more. 
n 


162  SILVER    JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

Carmel  Mission  was  erected  in  1770  by  Junipero  Serra;  it  is 
situated  in  the  fertile  Carmel  Valley,  a  short  distance  from  the  bay 
of  the  same  name,  and  about  five  miles  from  the  historic  town  of 
Monterey.  The  Mission  is  built  of  sandstone  and  concrete;  the 
roof  was  originally  made  of  tiles,  but  is  now  replaced  by  one  of 
shingles.  The  structure  was  raised  by  the  Indians  under  the  guid- 
ance of  the  Fathers,  and  shows  signs  of  skilled  workmanship  com- 
bined with  patient  toil.  Before  reaching  the  Mission  one  passes 
through  grainfields  and  orchards  put  under  cultivation  by  the 
Padres,  thus  showing  that  they  did  not  neglect  to  till  the  land  in 
their  efforts  to  convert  the  heathen. 

The  ruins  of  adobe  buildings  once  occupied  by  the  Indians,  are 
to  the  front  of  the  church.  The  church  itself  faces  the  northeast, 
and  on  approaching,  one  sees  the  arched  facade  on  either  side  of 
which  rise  towers,  the  larger  one  surmounted  by  a  dome.  In  this 
campanile  hung  the  silver-tongued  bells  of  the  Mission,  which  for 
years  pealed  so  sweetly,  proclaiming  peace  and  good  will  to  the 
Indian.  Above  the  entrance  is  a  star-shaped  window;  in  the  belfry 
are  three  windows,  two  facing  the  north,  one  the  east. 

For  many  years  the  building  was  crumbling  rapidly  to  decay, 
and  relic  hunters  took  away  tiles,  portions  of  woodwork,  in  fact, 
anything  they  could  secure.  Father  Cassanova,  Pastor  of  Monterey, 
was  grieved  to  think  Padre  Serra's  work  was  being  so  despoiled;  for 
years  he  had  his  heart  set  on  preserving  the  last  resting  place  of 
this  venerable  priest  and  his  co-laborers.  Thanks  to  his  zeal,  it  is 
now  partially  restored  to  its  former  condition. 

Once  inside  the  church  a  deep  reverence  fills  the  visitor ;  we  are 
carried  back  to  the  past ;  the  church  seems  filled  with  its  swarthy 
worshippers,  and  we  almost  hear  the  choir  chanting  its  weird  vesper 
hymn.  There  is  the  same  pulpit  from  which  Father  Serra  preached 
to  his  flock;  some  of  the  stained  glass  windows,  representing  Christ 
and  the  Blessed  Virgin,  also  remain;  the  wooden  altar  is  now  re- 
placed by  one  of  marble ;  near  by  is  a  small  slab  with  the  inscrip- 
tion: "Fundata  A.  D.  1770;  Restorata  1884."  Sleeping  near  the 


CARMELO          .  163 

altar  with  his  fellow  laborers  lies  Junipero  Serra.  Resting  there 
is  he  who  in  life  guided  his  children  so  well,  and  in  death  still 
seems  to  watch  over  his  faithful  Indians,  who  sleep  in  a  neighboring 
cemetery. 

The  Indians  have  a  beautiful  legend  which  tells  how  on  Christ- 
mas of  every  year  Padre  Serra  rises  from  his  tomb  and  celebrates 
midnight  mass. 

The  only  ornaments  left  in  the  church  are  an  old  plaster  statue 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  about  a  foot  in  height,  a  few  old  paintings  of 
our  Lord  and  the  saints.  To  the  left  of  the  church  is  the  baptistry, 
which  contained  the  baptismal  font,  now  restored.  On  the  walls  of 
the  baptistry  was  a  prayer  once  recited  by  the  Indians,  but  it  has 
been  so  defaced  by  relic  hunters  that  its  meaning  can  scarcely  be 
ascertained.  Some  kind  lady  has  had^  the  words  re- written  and 
framed.  Among  the  other  relics  are  the  records  of  the  church  in 
Serra's  own  handwriting;  a  rich  and  rare  old  Bible  bearing  the  date 
1589,  which  was  used  by  the  Padres;  Serra's  confessional,  a  splen- 
didly carved  piece  of  work;  a  painting  of  St.  Rose  of  Lima,  and  other 
paintings,  are  still  in  a  good  state  of  preservation,  and  are  to  be  seen 
in  San  Carlos'  Church  in  the  town  of  Monterey.  They  were  taken 
there  before  Carmel  was  restored,  as  it  was  not  deemed  safe  to  leave 
anything  of  value  within  its  tottering  walls. 

Thus  are  scattered  the  mementos  of  the  happy  days  that  are  gone 
forever,  but  none  can  touch  the  wooded  hills,  no  human  finger  limit 
the  boundless  sea.  As  in  the  days  of  the  "  black-robes/'  the  "  mur- 
muring pines  "  still  sing  responsive  to  the  dirge  of  the  ocean — a  re- 
quiem chant  they  ever,  while  the  slumbering  land  awaits  a  new 
resurrection  to  the  busy  scenes  of  yore. 

NELLIE  FEEHAN. 
Convent  of  the  Holy  Names,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 


A  well-known  author  has  written  ;  "to  call  up  our  old  days 
shall  be  a  solemn  pleasure  yet,"  and  the  words  can  hardly  be  more 
fitly  applied  than  to  looking  backward  on  our  school  life,  overflowing 
as  it  is  with  tender  memories  and  useful  lessons  ;  lessons  that  were 
learned  for  Time,  and  lessons  bearing  fruit  for  Eternity. 

Years  have  gone  by,  and  the  mist  of  time  has  gathered  between 
the  present  and  the  past,  but  even  as  the  last  rays  of  the  setting 
sun  fall  athwart  our  path,  and  seem  all  the  brighter  for  the  dim  even- 
ing light,  and  before  the  twilight  shadows  creep  about  us,  so  the  rec- 
ollections of  our  school-days  come  to  us  now  with  a  more  tender  and 
grateful  affection,  when  we  have  borne  for  awhile  the  burden  and 
heat  of  the  day,  in  our  life  in  the  world  ;  the  life  that  looked  bright 
and  fair  when  we  knew  it  but  in  our  dreams,  and  the  reality  of 
which  has  been  a  stern  awakening  to  many. 

^  \Vhatchangeshavetakenplaceinthesefewyears!  How  many 
breaks  in  the  little  circle  to  which  we  look  back,  and  call  fondly 
t(  Our  Class"  or  "  the  girls  in  our  room." 

The  Angel  of  Death  has  entered  and  breathed  on  the  fairest 
flowers.  The  Angels  of  Love  and  of  Prayer  have  whispered  to  others 
calling  them  to  a  nobler  and  a  higher  life.  And  the  Angel  of  Duty 
stands  by  the  rest,  pointing  with  unerring  finger  to  the  path  that 
ends  in  peace  ;  now  leading  us  gaily  onward  in  the  joyous  freedom 
of  children  doing  their  Father's  will,  now  gently  chiding  when  our 
footsteps  are  too  hasty  or  too  slow,  and  ever  and  anon,  pausing  before 
us  and  with  sterner  mien,  demanding  some  hardly  wrought  sacrifice. 

And  in  the  highest  Heaven  of  the  favored  few,  in  the  seclusion 
of  the  Cloister,  as  well  as  in  the  walks  and  avenues  of  our  daily 
life,  the  Convent  lessons  bear  their  fruit.  For  some,  a  glorious 

164 


WITHIN  A   SOUL  165 

reward  :  for  others,  the  peace  of  lives  "  hidden  with  Christ  in  God;" 
and  for  us,  who  will  say  that  in  the  hourly  struggle  with  the  world 
without  us,  and  the  world  within,  the  lessons  of  our  earlier  years  do 
not  give  strength  to  our  weak  hearts,  inspire  us  with  higher  motives 
and  nobler  aspirations,  and  so  lead  us  ever  onward  and  upward. 

Tenderly  we  look  backward,  and  beg  a  blessing  on  the  generous 
souls  who  have  left  all  at  the  voice  of  Heaven,  and  devote  their 
lives  to  enlightening  the  minds,  and  guiding  the  hearts  of  children. 

Softly  we  breathe  a  prayer  for  those  who  have  gone  before,  and 
bow  our  heads  in  humble  submission  to  the  Providence  of  God. 

And  for  ourselves  we  plead,  oh,  so  fervently!  for  grace  to  be 
faithful  to  the  teaching  of  by-gone  days,  that  the  tiny  seeds  sown 
long  ago,  growing  and  flourishing  with  time,  may  at  length  put  forth 
flowers  that  will  bloom  in  the  Divine  Garden,  and  exhale  forever 
the  perfume  of  virtues  taught  us  in  our  days  of  innocence  and 

childhood  faith. 

LAURA  J.  BRENHAM. 

Convent  of  the  Holy  Names,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 


a 


Man  has  an  unquenchable  thirst  for  the  unknown.  Since  Eve 
listened  to  the  voice  of  the  Tempter — '  ye  shall  be  like  Gods' — the 
curiosity  which  prompted  her  to  know  what  she  should  have  ignored, 
descended  as  a  legacy  to  the  human  race. 

The  Unknown — what  a  promise  for  the  cravings  of  the  mind, 
anxious  to  hoard  up  new  stores  of  knowledge,  and  what  obstacles 
will  arrest  man  on  his  unexplored  pathway?  Is  it  appalling  dan- 


106  SILVER   JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

• 

ger?  Is  it  heat  or  cold,  misery  or  famine,  disease  or  death  that 
cause  him  to  tarry  in  his  eager  pursuit?  .  .  .  See  him 
searching  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  turning  up  the  dust  of  ages, 
ascending  the  current  of  Time,  clasping  hands  as  it  were  with  his 
prehistoric  brethren — deciphering  barbaric  symbols  until  the  Past 
almost  ceases  to  be.  A  quarter  of  a  century  ago  vast  unexplored 
areas  covered  our  maps — these  hidden  and  almost  inaccessible  regions 
have  echoed  and  re-echoed  the  civilized  voice-,  and  the  veil  is  rent, 
behind  which  was  sequestered  the  great  Unknown.  From  Polar 
regions  to  Africa's  burning  sands  and  Antarctic  snows,  man  has  left 
his  trace,  and  ofttimes  his  bleaching  bones  tell  us,  both  of  his 
struggles  and  his  failures  in  his  persistent  research.  Into  the  realms 
of  space  Science  has  led  him  until  the  orbs  above  have  been  brought 
into  close  proximity  with  the  ever-searching  mind  of  man,  and 
there  seems  little  left  to  surmise.  This  active,  seething,  craving 
spirit  has  anticipated  ages  ahead,  and  to-day  we  find  ourselves  face 
to  face  with  such  a  state  of  progress  that  the  mental  stature  of  the 
19th  Century  will  be  comparatively  lilliputian  to  the  enlightened 
races  of  the  future. 

Is  there  any  hidden  recess  left  which  man's  restless  mind  has 
not  penetrated?  any  stronghold  which  he  has  not  taken  by  storm? 
Ah,  yes!  there  is  a  world  around  us,  which  the  keenest  eye  fails  to 
penetrate — a  realm  so  subtle,  so  spiritual,  so  guarded  from  all 
encroachments,  save  the  all-seeing  eye  of  God,  that  we  hardly  divine 
its  existence. 

We  live  with  bodies,  see  the  actions  of  men,  listen  to  their 
speech,  but  can  we  safely  affirm  that  all  these  manifestations  are 
but  so  many  reflections  of  the  spirit  within? 

There  are  natures  so  constituted,  that  through  their  transparency 
are  revealed  the  workings  of  the  soul.  Yet,  even  these  have  their 
own  inner  sanctuary  in  which  God  walks  alone,  as  with  our  first 
parents  before  the  fall. 

Others  are  clogged  by  the  body,  as  by  an  iceberg  ;  the  fire  within 
burns  fiercely,  but  like  the  pent-up  volcano,  finds  no  issue.  The 


WITHIN  A   SOUL  107 

reticent  man,  shut  up  within  himself,  bows  under  the  humiliating 
verdict  of  being  soulless,  when  the  very  fact  of  his  having  so  much 
soul,  makes  him  the  most  unfortunate  of  beings. 

The  wary  and  deceitful  plays  his  part  so  skillfully  that  no  sus- 
picion rests  upon  his  base  motives,  so  secure  is  he  behind  the  barrier 
of  the  senses — and  what  marvel  at  this  security?  since  it  has  been 
his  life-long  study  to  make  this  barrier  impenetrable  to  the  eye  of 
his  fellow-beings. 

Indeed,  so  subtle  are  the  workings  of  the  spirit  within,  that  the 
most  honest  and  upright  are  often  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the 
intentions  which  underlie  their  seemingly  best  deeds. 

Some  there  are,  again,  who  abhor  publicity,  and  make  to  them- 
selves a  dwelling  apart  ;  so  isolated  are  their  lives,  that  only  a 
restricted  circle  of  friends  are  admitted  to  their  intimacy,  and  even 
these  are  excluded  from  the  inner  chamber,  into  which  no  human 
eye  is  permitted  to  intrude. 

"  God  breathed  into  man  the  breath  of  life" — this  is  His  own 
Image.  No  human  effort  can  reproduce  it,  no  power  annihilate  it, 
no  eye  search  into  the  depths  thereof,  save  the  Creator  Himself. 

True,  Science  as  with  all  unknown  truths,  gives  principles,  by 
which  the  faculties  of  this  spiritual  part  of  our  being  are  analyzed ; 
but  how  much  is  left  unexplored!  Let  us  take  an  individual  soul — 
'tis  a  world  by  itself,  in  which  the  passions,  sensibilities  and  emotions 
are  playing  the  most  wondrous  drama  that  was  ever  enacted.  It  is 
also  a  battlefield,  upon  which  the  man  of  flesh  and  the  man  of 
spirit  are  contending  for  the  mastery.  Each  has  its  champions,  and 
little  do  we  know  of  the  fierce  contest,  otherwise  we  would  be  less 
hasty  in  bestowing  blame,  more  merciful  and  forgiving — yea,  little 
do  we  know  of  the  onslaught  of  the  foe — of  the  long  and  weary 
resistance,  of  the  bitterness  of  defeat.  The  battlefield  is  a  bloodless 
one,  but  forth  from  the  arena,  come  body  and  soul,  gray  with  the 
struggle. 

Turning  from  so  painful  a  prospect,  let  us  fix  our  eyes  upon  a 
more  consoling  one.  We  would  see  the  soul,  with  God-like  aspira- 


168  SILVER   JUBILEE   MEMORIAL 

tions,  cherishing  the  good,  the  beautiful  and  the  true — victorious 
over  the  ignoble  passions,  growing  in  wisdom  and  godliness.  Ah! 
this  is  a  temple  in  which  God  finds  His  delight  !  The  Saints  and 
the  Just  have  told  us  their  experience,  in  these  regions  away  from 
the  haunts  of  worldiness  and  sin  ;  but  with  eyes  of  flesh,  we  are 
blind  to  such  spiritual  beauties,  and  it  will  be  given  to  us  only  in 
the  glories  of  the  Resurrection,  to  conceive  the  greatness  of  this 
immortal  spirit,  and  its  capabilities  of  assimilating  itself  with  the 
Almighty  Being  that  brought  it  into  existence.  The  Spouse  in  the 
Canticle  calls  the  soul  of  His  beloved,  a  sealed  garden,  in  which 
bloom  myrrh,  spikenard  and  all  precious  ointments.  All  the  glory, 
the  beauty,  and  the  fragrance  of  the  world  of  flowers  can  give  us  no 
idea  of  this  garden  of  the  Spouse  ;  of  its  loveliness,  its  variety,  its 
inebriating  fragrance.  The  world  catches  but  faint  glimpses  of  what 
the  saints  have  told  of  themselves.  The  Spouse  has  His  hidden 
recesses,  which  are  veiled  to  mortal  eyes,  His  own  secrets  with  His 
beloved.  For  the  beauty  of  the  daughter  of  Sion  is  all  interior, 
saith  the  inspired  volume.  Therefore,  we  know  little  of  souls,  and 
of  the  Holy  Spirit's  operations  therein. 

Beginning  at  the  lowest  degree  of  human  life,  and  ascending 
the  scale  gradually,  we  marvel  at  the  workings  of  Divine  Grace — 
in  the  babe  merging  from  the  baptismal  waters  ;  in  the  predestined 
child,  who  has  escaped  all  contaminating  influence,  and  the  purity 
of  whose  soul  makes  it  less  a  thing  of  earth  than  of  Heaven  ;  in 
youth,  and  at  a  maturer  period,  as  well  as  down  the  slope  of  years,  we 
see  the  faithful  observer  of  God's  law  on  his  silent  round  of  duty 
garnering  in  a  golden  harvest,  of  which  human  statistics  take  no 
account,  until  this  grand  tableau  culminates  in  the  hoary-headed 
sire,  standing  in  the  glow  of  the  Eternal  Summits,  yearning  daily 
for  the  final  merging  of  his  soul  into  the  bosom  of  that  Being  Who 
created  him.  Ah!  if  we  lived  in  this  world  of  souls,  how  much 
more  beauty  we  would  discover  in  our  surroundings,  how  much 
more  hallowed  the  ground  upon  which  we  tread ! 

Touching  upon  these  souls  as  it  were  at  every  turning  point, 


THl-:\   -I.V/)    .YOU  169 

should  it  not  strike  awe  into  our  hearts,  knowing  all  the  wonders 
that  God  is  working  therein?  Physical  defects  which  give  birth  to 
petty  dislikes  and  repugnances,  would  disappear  in  the  overwhelming 
moral  greatness  of  these  godlike  spirits — for,  says  a  noted  writer, 
"  It  is  the  soul  shining  through  the  face  that  makes  one  beautiful." 

\Vhat  a  panorama  will  be  unveiled  to  our  gaze  on  the  great  day 
of  the  revelation  of  souls  !  and,  like  the  disciples  'mid  the  unexpected 
glories  of  Thabor,  we  will  then  have  no  aspirations  beyond  that 
Tabernacle  where  God  and  His  dearly  bought  souls  have  met,  in  an 
everlasting  embrace  of  love  and  peace. 

Therefore  let  us  love  souls,  live  with  souls,  study  souls;  it  will 
make  our  lives  better,  purer,  holier,  "until  this  corruption  puts  on 
incorruption,  and  this  mortal  puts  on  immortality." 

A  LOVER  OF  SOULS. 


'    -:-  •>• 


aijd  ^ 


The  years  have  passed,  and  flown  apace, 

As  summer  birds  do  fly, 
That  cast  their  shadows  as  they  flit 

O'er  earth  and  field  and  sky. 

Those  shadows  which  must  turn  to  gold 
When  veined  by  heaven's  rays, 

If  good  and  noble  deeds  are  wrought 
Within  the  fleeting  days. 


170  SILVER   JUBILEE    MEMORIAL 

Now,  Mem'ry  lift  on  high  thy  rod 

As  Moses  did  of  old  ; 
And  bid  the  waves  of  Time  roll  back 

And  show  thy  strand,  unmarked,  unscrolled. 


Canadian  shores  gleam  fair  and  bright, 

And  Nature  smiles  on  all, 
When  from  the  far-off  western  world, 

Sounds  forth  a  bugle  call. 

A  call  to  dutyl     Rise  and  come, 

Ye  daughters  of  the  King! 
He  calls  to  ye,  and  shall  ye  wait 

Or  from  ye  nobly  fling 

All  thoughts  of  self,  of  home  and  friends, 

Who  only  know  His  Will? 
Ah !  five  and  twenty  years  have  passed. 

And  yet  they  serve  Him  still! 

Gaily  as  bride  unto  the  feast 
Where  love  doth  shine  on  all, 

Go  forth  that  band  from  Canada's  shores, 
To  hearken  to  the  call. 

Courage  and  strength  and  faith  had  they, 

Those  chosen  of  the  Lord. 
And  conquerors  they  stand  to-day, 

Who  preached  not  by  the  sword. 

But  by  the  kind  and  loving  care 

They  gave  to  all  who  came, 
For  knowledge,  consolation,  love, 

And  asked  in  Jesus'  Name. 

For  by  that  Name,  before  whose  might 
Earth,  heaven  and  hell  must  fall, 

And  by  sweet  Mary's  tender  Name, 
Have  they  accomplished  all. 


THEN  AND   NOW  171 

And  that  small  band,  led  on  by  one 

Well  formed  by  grace  to  guide, 
Has  grown  and  flourished  day  by  day, 

Its  works  show  far  and  wide. 

A  structure  grand  on  high  is  reared, 

And  lifts  to  heaven  its  dome, 
As  if  to  show  the  careless  eye, 

That  there  above  is  Home. 

Religion,  Science,  Art  here  meet, 

And  flourish  'neath  the  care, 
Of  those  who  many  years  ago. 

First  sowed  the  seedlings  there. 

And  now  the  bearded  grain  is  ripe, 

And  she  who  sowed  so  true, 
Has  come  to  gather  in  the  sheaves, 

And  take  in  love  her  due. 

Then  side  by  side,  and  heart  to  heart, 

We  welcome  her  in  glee, 
Our  souls  glad  hallelujahs  sing 

In  love's  mute  minstrelsy. 

And  while  we  send  on  high  our  voice, 

On  high  too  speeds  the  pray'r, 
That  God  our  Mother's  heart  will  fill, 

With  sweetest  love/ore'er. 

And  he  whose  voice  sent  forth  the  call 

AVhich  reached  the  distant  land, 
Has  Father,  Brother,  friend  long  been, 

To  his  devoted  band. 

Ah !  come,  sweet  Peace,  and  crown  his  days, 

Who  all  his  days  has  spent, 
In  "strivings  oft,  in  perils  deep;" 

And  hope  and  courage  lent, 


172  SILVER   JUBILEE   MEMORIAL 

To  all  who  claimed  a  Father's  care  ; 

And  none  e'er  asked  for  aught, 
But  it  was  given  in  joy.     Ah !  come 

Sweet  Peace — the  crown  is  sought. 

And  our  own  Mother,  whom  God  has  given 
Sweet  womanhood's  true  grace, 

Whose  mother  soul  doth  bend  to  all, 
AVho  well  doth  fill  her  place, 

In  truest  worth,  in  guidings  wise, 
Whose  rule  is  love's  own  sway  ; 

Ah!  long  may  she  be  ours  to  love 
Long  may  she  point  the  way 

To  higher  things,  and  nobler  far, 
Than  this  world  e'er  controls  ; 

So  may  our  lives  meet  here  through  God, 
In  God,  above,  our  souls. 


Now,  Time,  who  in  thy  flowing  tide, 

Dost  bear  all  onward  still, 
Let  not  the  Future  mar  the  Past, 

But  fairer,  brighter  still, 

Ah!  may  the  round  of  Duty,  wrought 
In  faith  and  hope  and  love, 

A  guerdon  fair  on  earth  e'er  be 
A  fadeless  crown  above. 


KATE  L.  O'NEILL, 


